The Girl with the Ax
by animatedbrowneyes
Summary: Before Katniss Everdeen, there was Quinn Fabray. She may not be the Mockingjay, but she is no less significant. AU. A Hunger Games/Glee crossover with major character death.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** The Girl with the Ax

**Author:** animatedbrowneyes

**Section:** (1/5)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters within the Hunger Games or Glee; I just borrow them.

Decided to do a crossover, like everyone's been doing. I hope it satisfies. I dedicate it to my friends: spacedsensation, slyhart, ridakulous, teadalek, and littleoldrabbit, for listening to my babbling about this for four long months. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>A woodpecker digs a new cavity in a tree just outside my window as the sun rises into the sky, startling me from my drowsy stupor. I blink, rubbing away the fatigue in my eyes with the heel of my hand. I stifle a yawn and shuffle to my dresser just as I hear my mother ambling down the hallway to wake me up. She always does it out of habit, even though she knows I never sleep a wink during the night prior to Reaping Day.<p>

"Quinnie," my mother greets as she peers inside my room, brow creased with worry.

Reaping Day always makes her age a little more every year. She looks haggard and pale, tendrils of blonde hair loose around her head and dark circles underneath her eyes―she must've spent the night wide awake, unable to get any rest. I know I must look similar.

"I'll be downstairs in a second," I tell her quietly. She nods, like always, and disappears.

Fortunately, I have only two more slim opportunities to be reaped―signing up for tesserae has not been an issue for me, so my name is just entered in the standard, cumulative fashion―while my older sister, Charlotte, is safe at twenty two. Charlotte's children are only two and three right now, so she has some time to relax before she becomes a spitting image of our mother, Judy, and our grandmother before her.

Eventually, I choose a simple dress, deciding that red will be a suitable option. In a moment of vanity, I grab a headband from my wardrobe, unsurprised at the smile that lifts my lips as I study my reflection in the mirror. I may look younger than my sixteen years, but that's not the reason for the smile. I look a lot like my..._friend_ from school, Rachel Berry, and the image alone makes my smile widen.

I lift a hand to my lips, fingers tracing the edges. They still burn as excitement stirs in my veins at the memory of a stolen kiss.

Was that just last night? It seems so long ago.

I want another one, but somehow, I doubt it'll happen again soon.

I shake my head, clearing the rush of puzzling thoughts, and skip down to the kitchen.

Mom passes me a bowl of oatmeal as soon as I sit down, and Dad sneaks glances at me over his newspaper, but I pretend not to notice. Charlotte and John―her husband―sit opposite me, their sons still sleeping upstairs. They're watching me, too, but I studiously ignore everyone. I feel a sudden breath of hot air near my feet and look down, finding my old dog, Daphne, staring up at me with woeful eyes, like she knows what the possibility of this day holds. She climbs up into my lap, lowering her chin to rest on the table. I pet her ears consolingly.

Breakfast goes slowly. I like dawdling. Nothing happens until two o'clock, anyway.

Mom reorganizes the dishes in the cabinet, acting like she isn't counting down the hours as she keeps her back to me.

Dad rereads his newspaper twice, occasionally shifting in his seat, chair creaking noisily.

Charlotte and John speak in low voices as he brushes his hand along hers, almost absentmindedly.

The clock ticks on, and when it's nearing ten, I sigh and Daphne clambers dutifully to the floor.

"I'll be outside," I say softly. Dad nods before anyone can argue, and I hasten out of the door.

I hate Reaping Days. I hate making everyone nervous. I hate the way my mother looks at me like she'll never see me again. It could happen, obviously, but it doesn't make the time of relief go faster. I hate how my father, a notorious chatterbox, suddenly becomes a mute. I hate how Charlotte looks torn between volunteering―forbidden, now, because of her age, thank goodness―and hugging me until I can't breathe. I hate John's lingering looks and his blank eyes, as if envisioning one of his boys climbing the stage with their name plucked from the glass ball. I hate the disturbing hush that falls on District 7 on this day, because if my district is quiet, there is something really wrong.

I loathe the Hunger Games and most of all, I loathe Capitol and its control over all of Panem. Sometimes I wish the rebels succeeded during the Dark Days and obliterated the regime we're currently stuck with. There would be no Games. There would be no favoritism for the wealthier districts, because everyone would be equal. There wouldn't be twenty-three kids being slaughtered once a year on television. There wouldn't be a glorified murderer―once an innocent child, but no more―accepting a crown from a nation expected to idolize them.

I shouldn't think of these things. Being angry over something _very_ unchangeable is ridiculous and disappointing.

A twig snaps and I look up, mood lifting a bit.

"You look lovely," I quip.

Finn Hudson flourishes his hand to me in an elegant bow, goofy grin on his face. "Thanks."

He, like everyone else, is wearing his best and not his shabby school attire. A thin layer of sawdust has settled on his vest, though. That can't be helped. It's everywhere―in the air, on the ground, in our homes. I imagine it'll end up on my clothes at some point today.

Finn climbs over the small fence that separates our backyards and sits on the log beside me, knocking our knees together.

"Nice," he comments, surveying my outfit. "You look like an apple. You know how I _love_ apples?"

"Shut up," I say with a chuckle. Finn never fails to get at least one genuine laugh out of me. He's the reigning class clown at school and makes even the most boring lectures amusing. Since we have been neighbors since birth, he's my best friend in the entire district.

Except Rachel. But that's separate story entirely_._

Finn merely winks in response and we lapse into silence.

"I'm never used to this," he says after awhile, shooting me an empathetic glance. "The anticipation is...awful."

"Must be worse for the tesserae kids," I remark, and Finn nods.

"Puck's entered, like, fifty times," he murmurs, sounding sad. I nod, already well-aware of our friend's living situation.

"What about Hannah?"

"Three."

A terrible vision of Puck's little sister being thrown into the Games jumps into my head instantly and makes me nauseated.

"She won't get picked," I mumble half-reassuringly, half-uneasily. "The odds are against it."

Finn's shrug is troubled. "Don't count on that. Remember Hadrian Stone from ten years ago? He was thirteen and only entered twice."

I nod reluctantly.

"Anyone's up for grabs," he says, blunt but true. "Odds aren't in anyone's favor."

I walk inside around twelve and eat lunch (again, in near silence, but more oppressing this time) and flounce back to my seat in the backyard with Finn as soon as I finish. His mother waves to me from the window and I return it. Carole Hudson is a single mother, ever since her husband was killed in an accident at the sawmill. She's done well enough alone, on her own, earning wages as a seamstress and laundress, because it's a job that will never go under nor unwanted here. Finn delivers the parcels and gets a tip for it, usually, so he always has pocket money, like I do.

My father is a manager at the sawmill where Finn's father used to work and my mother works as a clerk in the mayor's office.

In other words, we don't really _want_ for anything or have long, hungry months like people in other districts do. We're a lucky few.

Finn and I lay on our backs on the grass and point out clouds to pass the time, because as he's correct. The anticipation is the worst part.

He tries to make us both less nervous with jokes, and for the most part, it works. He's good at distracting things like that.

"Look...a tree."

"Finn, _really_?"

"What?" He laughs before I roll my eyes, shading them from the sunlight. "It's a maple. You love maple syrup."

"You're ridiculous," I grumble. Trees are all we learn about in school and he brings it up even when we're not there. Moron.

"Okay, okay, sorry..."

He pauses for too long and I don't have to look at him to know that a wicked grin is climbing on his boyish features.

"Quinn, look! It's a sycamore this time! Isn't that neat?"

"_No_."

* * *

><p>By the time two o'clock rolls around, my anxiety is back on high and I find myself being shepherded into the square. I sign in and slip into the herd of sixteen year olds and see Santana Lopez saunter up to stand at my left, with Brittany Pierce at her heels. I briefly squeeze Santana's hand, aware that she despises Reaping Day more than I do. Her sister, Lucinda, was picked a number of years ago and came back to 7 in a box.<p>

The parents and other adults are instructed to stand near the alleys and surround us, separated from their children by a thick rope.

Finn, Puck, and Rachel find us and my attention on the events is briefly diverted by Rachel's small smile in my direction.

She's dressed in a blue frock with her hair pulled back from her face. She looks cute, as usual. My eyes linger a little too long, sweeping over her until Rachel's blushing maroon. I must be, too, but I just send her a grin and turn around, hearing her scoff of disgruntlement.

Maybe we can spend some time together after the reaping. I wish I could speak with her now, but I should be patient.

However, patience has never been one of my fortes, especially if it's in Rachel's case.

Finn observes my expression and elbows me in the ribs, wordlessly telling me to look ahead because the Peacekeepers are watching us.

My cheer at seeing Rachel fades as soon as the mayor steps up to the stage, tapping the microphone with his finger.

Mayor Janus eyes the cameras positioned around the city and starts his customary address about Panem's past. Meanwhile, I let my gaze settle on our Capitol representative, Leo Milon. His signature smile is perfectly in place, along with his green suit flecked with gold spirals to match his styled mane of honey colored hair. Leo is the one who always picks the tributes from the glass ball, so I've never been particularly fond of him. He seems insincere and unconcerned, as if his drawings of names doesn't affect anyone's lives and it's just a bit of good fun.

Right. Helping in a barbaric system that annually kills kids must be a great time.

I frown, knowing it's a waste of time (and treason) to think about such things. I push my cynicism aside to focus on the presentation.

The mayor concludes with a nod and raises his hand at the dutiful applause, returns to his seat, and waves Leo over to speak.

The two victors―mentors, now―of our district sit next to the mayor, expressionless and silent. They don't look at the children, as if they can ignore their job until the last possible moment.

Leo's enthusiasm is horrid as he smiles at the crowd, oblivious to our distaste.

Sometimes I wonder if Leo, or any Capitol envoys, are aware of how much we abhor them. Probably not.

I catch Puck's eye for a second as he turns from the sun's glare. He makes a face at me and I grimace.

Leo chatters that it's time and claps excitedly―his sentence reverberates in my mind, over and over again, like some disconcerting recording―and meanders to the identical glass containers, hands laden with gaudy rings that sparkle in the sunlight.

The silence is heavy with unspoken terror as he reaches down into the bin with dozens of scraps of paper with the names of the girls.

Holding my breath doesn't quell the uncomfortable, uncertain feeling in my stomach.

Leo's hand is rifling through the slips. He plucks one and lifts it up to his eyes, microphone sparking a little with static.

He clears his throat, delicately, the sound echoing around the square, and reads the name aloud at the same moment bird squawks. My eyes fly to it at once, spotting the bright plumage before it vanishes behind a building. I crane my neck to look.

Someone suddenly pushes me forward, and I stumble over my shoes.

I look around in confusion. Who did he call? I must've missed it. Santana's staring at me from her spot in utter despair, pained gaze hardening like ice but then looking away from me, struggling to compose herself. Brittany's eyes, as blue as the sky, are brimming with tears. Finn and Rachel are gaping, sharing looks of anguish. Puck's tugging me by the wrist and pushing me to the stage, nudging my shoulders a bit forcefully.

The crowds shifts restlessly, thousands of eyes burning holes in my back, low, sympathetic murmurs reaching my ears.

The conclusion hits me like a slap and all I can do is swallow the huge lump in my throat and walk to the podium that seems miles away.

Why can't I walk properly?

My pace is robotic and jerky and I can see a flash of myself on the big screens hovering above, looking pale and flummoxed.

Leo's beaming and gestures in welcome for me to stand beside him as I blink and blink and blink, disoriented and dumbfounded. Me? _Me?_ Surely not. There has to be a mistake. I'm only entered several times in the running―if anything, it's someone else, someone with more opportunities to be selected, someone more desperate and more accessible to be reaped than I. Not me. Not me. I can distinctly remember writing my name in accordance to my age. Four slips. Four slips with _Quinn Fabray_ in my swooping handwriting and nothing else. _Me_? It can't be.

_It can't_, my mind screams. Not me. Not me. It's just an error! Leo must be kidding or playing some despicable joke.

Me?

_Me?_

I remain still, hands clasped together as my brain attempts to absorb the impossible and my heart pounds quickly on my ribs.

I am a tribute, like so many others before me.

I am a _tribute_.

I am entered in the Hunger Games so I can join in a fight to the death on live TV for our entire world to watch.

My teeth descend to gnaw on my lower lip, biting it hard to suppress the temptation to panic.

Rachel's staring right at me, but I don't meet her eyes. I can't.

My mouth tastes like metal and I lick my lips. _Remain calm_, I tell myself.

Leo's smile never falters as he trots to the globe filled to the brim with scrawly male scripts and I force a breath of air through my lungs.

I can't even see my family from my position, but I can sense their distress as if they were standing right next to me.

My mother's worst fear is confirmed. She must be in hysterics. I don't envy Dad at the moment.

"Finn Hudson," Leo announces suddenly, peering through the mass of bodies crammed into lines by age.

My worry and thoughts screech to a sharp stop and then immediately start up again, directionless, miserable, and aghast.

Finn? _Finn_? I try to comprehend this turn of events but there's no time. This is happening now.

No, no, no!

Finn and I will be tributes together in the arena. My best friend could be my enemy. You never really know until it matters.

I banish that belief without a second thought. Finn would never hurt me.

..._right_?

The odds must hate us. Two sixteen year olds and old friends, too? I don't know what to make of today's twist on my luck.

My eyes land on the solemn figure of my childhood companion―taller than most and muscular, with soft brown eyes and a normally animated face that's now dark and cold with despondency and a clear feeling of helplessness―ascending the stage, jaw tight and shoulders rigid.

Blood drains from my face as Leo's fervent applause provokes a minimal, half-hearted ovation that ends abruptly.

Finn and I manage to steal a horrified glance at each other, and follow Leo and our mentors to the Justice Building.

* * *

><p>One hour. Finn and I―separately―are allowed a single hour to say our goodbyes. Whether they'll be permanent ones or temporary ones is up to the other tributes in the Games with us, but I refuse to think about that right now and sit quietly until my family shows up.<p>

Predictably, my mother can't even talk without bursting into a new round of tears, so she just holds my hand.

Dad is throwing random strategies at me left and right, but I'll never use them. I'll have some real training soon to learn how to kill.

My heart plummets.

The mere thought of killing someone's son, daughter, brother, or sister has me about to be sick. Sure, I'd watched the Games since before I understood what they were and what they stand for―a punishment for surviving rebels, because what's worst than watching your children die in pain but also outliving them―yet the idea of taking someone's life seemed so far away, as if it was a nightmare I would never be plagued with. I wouldn't have dreamed that this could've happened to me. I am sixteen and a low entry individual without a need for tesserae. The chances of me being picked are so narrow, but here I sit, feeling my sister slide an arm across my shoulders and watching the clock tick down.

I know I must get a grip soon. A shot of me being sad or crying my eyes out means no sponsors and less of a stake for survival.

Charlotte's three year old bops my knee with his pudgy hand and examines my face with innocent curiosity, confused at my sorrow.

_Someone could kill you one day. Someday, you might be in the Games. Your mother will tell you about her sister's death in the arena..._

"Quinn," John speaks up, as Mom's making my hand lose close to losing all its circulation.

I look up and examine him. We don't really converse often, because he's not much of a talker, but he seems to be in deep thought.

"Don't give up on this yet," he says, grave. "You're better than that."

How did he manage to understand my thoughts so fast?

Mom opens her mouth to chime in a harried, wild agreement, but Dad shakes his head, letting John continue.

"District Seven isn't at a disadvantage," he says reasonably. "You know how to use an axe. You're not a Career, but not to be ignored."

"I know," I say. John smiles, but it's a sad one. He's wishing (so am I) that maybe we could've gotten to know each other better.

Charlotte tucks a strand of blonde hair―a shade lighter than her own―behind my ear, expression stern.

"Stay cool," my sister orders, easily the calmest one here. She's always been the level-headed type. I should learn that from her. "Going into there with the wrong mindset isn't helpful."

Charlotte's bid at serenity can't last. She knows my chances are sparse. They all do. That's why there are tears.

"Find allies, too," Dad urges, drawing me from my musings, gaze intent on my face. "Be alone only if you have to."

"Okay."

I struggle to find something say in return, something that'll appease them or soothe their nerves, but nothing comes to my mind. What would I say, anyway? Thanks for the time I've spent with them? Thanks for the roof over my head and the relatively easy life in District 7? Thanks for letting me have an allowance and have sweets and stay up late occasionally and have friends over whenever I please? Thanks for the love?

My throat hurts and my voice is missing.

This could be the very last time I'm in the presence of people who care about me. I could be dead in all but a week or two.

When there's five minutes left, there's a knock on the door and Rachel―my eyes widen―pokes her head in the door and coughs.

"Umm...may I speak to Quinn, please? Alone?"

Knowing that Rachel will use up the duration of this hour, my family plants kisses on my forehead and leaves in a silent, mournful line. I want to burst out something else, besides an I-love-you, because that doesn't seem to be enough, but I'm rooted to my seat and then, they're gone.

They're gone, they're gone, they're gone. And I didn't say a word of gratitude or affection to anyone.

I bit my lip again. Toughening up time has to be now. I can't crumble to pieces when I get upset anymore. Not if I want to live.

Rachel is watching my two nephews waddle down the hallway, but she shuts the door with a snap and turns back to me.

The intense look in her eyes brings me to last night, before I went home to feign sleep and start the countdown until morning.

* * *

><p><em>"Careful, Quinn," Rachel insisted, ever the worrier. "That doesn't look safe."<em>

_She was walking me home―wouldn't take 'no' for an answer, so I relented―from dinner at her house as the sky was darkening quickly._

_"It's fine," I laughed, arms extended as I balanced on a low wooden fence like a gymnast. "Relax."_

_She shook her head, failing to slow the smile that spreads across her face. I could always make her smile._

_"Please get down?" She asked with one of her patented puppy-dog looks. "I don't want you to get hurt."_

_I grumbled something incomprehensible that earns me a giggle and I made a show of climbing down, landing in front of her._

_"There," I said, acting disgruntled._

_"Don't pout," she teased, taking a step toward me and slinking her arms around my neck in a tight hug._

_I hugged back automatically, feeling her breath, warm against my collarbone._

_"Nervous yet?" I wondered, watching lights across the street extinguish, the occupants of a house heading to bed._

_"I get nervous about two weeks beforehand," Rachel replied quietly. "I get anxious, always at that mark."_

_Huh. I never notice the time passing between the next Games until the date is a day away on my calendar._

_Rachel's grip tightened._

_"I'm scared," she admitted, almost inaudibly. "What if it's you?"_

_I didn't answer. I wouldn't know what I would do if it is me. Or her. Rachel pulled back a bit, eyes bright._

_"What if it's me?" She queried._

_"I'd sponsor you," I answered, blanching in terror at the thought of her being Reaped. She was too fragile for it. Too small. Too innocent. Her in the arena would result in a scared little songstress, running from Careers and being hunted down within a day or two. "Santana, Brittany, Puck, Finn and I...we would all do it."_

_"That's not the point," she mumbled, disregarding my words. "What if it's me picked tomorrow and then I never see you again?"_

_My face burned. Rachel and I had only just acknowledged this...'extra' caring about each other sometime ago. Not like caring about Santana or Brittany or Finn or Puck because this was very...different. Deeper. More personal, more vexatious. Stronger, more invigorating. I couldn't remember where it actually started, to be honest. She couldn't either. I just assumed it grew and grew until it was simply impossible to ignore._

_We hadn't done anything about it, so it had just stuck around with us, making our conversations shy and hesitant. I didn't mind._

_That made tomorrow seem harder than it was. Forming attachments like this weren't advisable unless you were older than eighteen._

_"I don't know," I murmured truthfully. I didn't. I would most likely bawl my eyes out, but I didn't say that aloud._

_Deciphering my expression, Rachel exhaled gust of air, appearing to steady herself._

_"Would you miss me?" She questioned so softly, I nearly missed it._

_"Of course I would," I urged, harsher than I expected, but that didn't faze her. Instead, her lips curled up into a tremulous smile._

_She stood up a little higher on tiptoe as I tried to guess what she was thinking, curled a hand behind my neck, and kissed me._

_I let my eyes close as a fluttery feeling emanated from our connected lips. I kissed back, eagerly, until she stepped away._

_"Just in case," she told me breathlessly, eyes shining, and planted a kiss on my cheek, the gentle pressure on my skin like a zap of electricity._

* * *

><p>"We have to say goodbye," Rachel says, voice sounding more brisk than upset. She's probably hiding her tears until after I leave.<p>

Good. I can't bear her grief on my shoulders. Not hers too. I must keep myself together.

"Yeah," I acquiesce numbly. "Right."

I don't move. I don't know what to do. Kiss her? Hug her? Ask if she'll never forget me? I won't be coming back to 7 alive.

I drift between hoping to come back for her and knowing I can't. I don't know which one is more plausible.

She's not moving from her spot either, but is unclasping a necklace from her throat, a gold _R_ as the charm on the chain. I recognize it immediately. She's always had it, ever since we were little. Her father is the mayor's assistant and occasionally, they're invited to Capitol for business events. Her father picked up the trinket and gave it to her as a gift. She treasures it more than anything else she owns.

"Here," she says, letting the charm and chain flow like water into my palm. "Use this as a token."

A token? Oh! I forgot all about procuring one from my family. This is good. This will remind me of home. Too much, but I can manage.

"Thank you," I murmur, grateful. At least I have this to keep with me in the Games. She'll get it back when I come home in a coffin, at least.

I know I won't last long in the arena. I need to accept that fact sooner rather than later. Resigning to my own death is a difficult task.

Finn might make it, though. The thought comforts me. My best friend could return to his mother and friends, safe and sound.

Rachel strides over silently and retrieves the token, uncoiling the chain, fastening the catch around my neck, and straightening it out.

"There," she whispers, kneeling so she's in front of my seat on the couch, hand lifting to cup my chin.

She studies my eyes and I swallow a lump in my throat. These minutes are painful and _hurt_ but I want them to last as long as possible.

I want a second kiss. I need one. Before I'm taken away from her and the option is revoked.

"I'll be waiting for you," Rachel informs me.

I avert my gaze, seizing the rush of longing and silly daydreams and pushing them from my mind. I _won't_ be back. She must know this. I'm not that strong and I don't train from infancy like Career kids do. I don't have a shred of hope to hold on to, nothing tangible to believe in.

She's guessed my thoughts, though.

"Don't," she says, tone firm. Her words penetrate more than Charlotte's. Listening carefully, I watch her features in earnest.

"You, Quinn Fabray," she continues, hand reaching up to cradle my cheek and brush her thumb across the flesh, "are better than that. You're one of the smartest girls in District Seven and I don't go a day without hearing something witty from you. You've watched the Hunger Games just as long as the other tributes. You understand the basic strategies. You understand the danger."

"Do you really believe that?" I ask desperately. Rachel's insistence that I'll be okay is suddenly crucial. I need it and her kiss. Something.

"I do. And with me and our friends as sponsors, we'll get you to win. Or Finn. Either one."

"What about him? He's in this with me. Please tell me there's money for Finn, too," I beg. Rachel nods.

"Puck and Brittany will sponsor him. Santana and I will sponsor you. They're all telling him everything as we speak."

"That's too much," I argue, recalling my conversation with Finn just this morning. "Puck can't afford it."

"He disagrees. I really don't want to fight him on it," Rachel sighs. "Let us do this. Let us get one of you back."

I inhale a shuddering breath and nod, and nod again.

Rachel's eyes flit to the clock. One minute left. One minute left of safety and security. One minute left of Rachel and that's it, no more.

"Kiss me," I beseech in a whisper. "Please."

Her smile is beautiful. She nods.

The hand cupping my chin keeps me still as she draws closer and I shut my eyes, greedy and impatient for her.

Her kiss is like a shot of adrenaline and I relish the chance to have something so sweet, even if our minutes together are dwindling.

I savor everything that is Rachel Berry as much as I can in the time I have left with her. The softness of her touch. The desperate yet gentle force of her lips on mine. The taste of them, too―something candied and exquisite. The content but sad sigh that escapes her mouth as she pulls away, placing a kiss on my forehead, more intimate than the one on the cheek that I received yesterday. She lets her fingers graze my cheek.

"Don't give up, Quinn," she says, not unkindly. "Okay?"

"I won't," I promise, only half-believing it. "I swear."

A knock on the door ends our conversation and my heart sinks further into despair.

Rachel follows me and the three silent Peacekeepers that escort me to the Capitol-bound train. The station is only a short walk from the Justice Building, so the entire district lingers in the distance, watching me leave and shaking their heads. Camera crews are positioned on all sides, focusing on my trek to the station. As I walk, I compose myself with a deep, soothing breath. I can't look pathetic on television. I refuse to.

"Remember what I said!" Rachel cries as I'm climbing the platform and entering the train. The doors slide shut behind me with a hiss.

There's only enough time to turn around, fingers pressed against the glass, to look at the group huddled near the station. My parents. Charlotte. John and my nephews. Puck. Santana. Brittany. Carole. They're all waving frantically but I catch Rachel's eye and nod once.

She understands, finally brushing what looks like a tear from her eyes. Puck drapes an arm across her shoulders, gaze fixated on me.

The train pulls away, slowly at first, and I watch the worried crowd of those who love Finn and I vanish in a blur of color.

"We'll see them again," someone remarks. I jump and see him, watching me from a chair, mouth quirked up in his trademark smile.

"We?" I parrot. Finn shrugs, scratching his ear. He must be thinking what I am―ending this friendship here and now.

"One of us. Stay positive," he says, baffling me immensely. "If anyone in there will win this besides me, it's you."

What? Finn has just as much of a chance as I do and yet, he's almost implying that he doesn't care either way. I don't get it.

"That's what Rachel said," I manage. Shouldn't we be demolishing this camaraderie? This attachment means nothing anymore.

"Rachel's right," Finn allows, uneasy. He's still processing, but I can see the fear radiating from him. "Giving up isn't an option, okay?"

"Okay."

* * *

><p>Leo needlessly reintroduces himself, showing his perfect teeth as he shakes our hands. My eyes keep drifting from his awful hair to his emerald suit with gold spirals and I can tell by the tilt of Finn's mouth that he's holding back laughter. Capitol fashion is so <em>strange.<em>

"Separate rooms," our representative informs us. "Be ready for dinner in an hour."

Leo trots―or prances, I can't really decide what applies to him more―down to the dining car, and Finn rolls his eyes.

"See you in a bit," he says and follows an attendant down the hall to get changed into something nice. Another Capitol worker crooks a finger at me and he brings me to my room, sweeping the door open with a flourish and then, once I'm settled, helpfully disappears.

I pivot on my heels and examine the elegant furnishing with wonder. My home is comfortable but this is luxury at its finest.

My animosity at our system boils up again so I shake my head to clear it and go to the wardrobe, staring unhappily at the row of skirts in every color imaginable, finely woven and a much higher quality than mine. All hanging and ready for me to wear and I just _don't_ care.

I won't pick a new outfit, I decide, catching sight of myself in the full length mirror. I don't need it.

However, a red knit hat, way in the back of the dresser, catches my eye and I grab it, removing my headband and putting it on a table.

Rachel has one almost exactly like it and my heart warms considerably.

I smile without a grimace and place it over my ears, arranging my hair so it looks good, and then go into the bathroom to wash up.

The attendant retrieves me in silence after an hour has passed and leads the way to dinner. I realize I'm starving.

Leo and Finn are already the table, and Finn's shoveling everything on his plate into his mouth and flashes me a grin. I snort.

"Gross."

Finn says something incoherent and gulps down his food in one sickening slurp. "Really good," he gasps. Leo recoils.

I load my own plate and Leo initiates a stale and awkward, one-sided conversation that results in a story of how he got to work in this Games business. Finn and I pretend to listen and I avoid inhaling my food like Finn is, even though it's the best I've ever tasted.

Us following Leo into another compartment, this one lined with cushy couches, succeeds supper, and we make ourselves comfortable.

Leo turns on the tape of the reapings and leans forward in his seat, scrutinizing our counterparts, and starts with District 1.

A girl shorter than I with a self-satisfied smile and a lean, handsome boy with a matching smirk are selected, and the tape cuts to 2.

A new Career duo is picked and I urge my mind to remember their faces.

The tributes from 3, 4, 5, and 6 are called and then, it's us.

Finn and I watch ourselves and I cringe at the obvious discomfort on my face as I walk to the stage. Finn looks just as bad.

"Well," Leo says bracingly, scribbling something on a notepad in a voice dripping with forced cheer, "I can work with this."

"How?" Finn demands with uncharacteristic coldness.

Leo shrugs. "It'll come to me," he says dismissively, pressing a button to resume the tape. "Don't you worry about it, son."

Finn's face darkens immediately so I tap his wrist with my fingers, raising my eyebrows in warning. Instigating an argument with one of our keys to survival is inadvisable. We need Leo's good humor and Finn knows this. My touch reminds him and he frowns at the ceiling.

The last five districts are called and the program concludes with some announcer's blathering about the possibility of a great Games.

Leo shuts off the television and shoos us to our rooms, reminding us without fail that we have an important day tomorrow.

Finn and I leave together and stand in the hallway for a second, watching the darkness outside speeding past us.

"I don't know when I'll be able to do this again, so..." I trail off, and wrap my arms around him in a hug.

Finn's arms encircle my waist and he rests his chin on my head.

"Upside?" He prompts so I look up into his eyes. "We get to have the best food in the whole country while we're here."

"True," I admit, and he smiles.

"We've had it easy," he reasons as he releases me from his embrace. "I guess it's time for us to struggle."

"Until one of us wins," I remind him, grudgingly boarding this optimistic bandwagon for his sake and Rachel's.

"Exactly," Finn agrees. "I've been thinking..."

"Yeah?" I ask.

Finn hesitates, but gathers resolve and clears his throat. "I think we should be allies."

A similar idea has been swirling in my mind for the several hours we've been on this train. Most tributes tolerate each other's presence and train separately, barely acknowledging each other in favor of no compassion and no familiarity. They know they both must fight, so being comrades seems silly. However, returning to your district with your fellow tribute's blood on your hands is one of the most shameful things a competitor in the Games can do, at least to the majority of Panem. Predictably, Capitol adores those showdowns.

I deliberate for just a second longer and finally nod in agreement. Finn's my best friend. Of course I could never say no.

Besides, if the Careers are allies, why can't we be?

He smiles, relieved―so am I, now that I think about it―and I'm reminded of home and far away days, spending time with our friends.

He walks me to my room and I give him another hug before wishing him a good night.

I shut the door and find a seat on the king sized bed, trailing my fingers along the blankets.

For the first time today, I let myself calm down. I need to cherish these moments of silent tranquility because I won't get any more.

I get some sleepwear―long pants and a shirt―and flit to the bathroom and brush my teeth before flitting to the bed and snuggling in.

As I lay down and stare at the ceiling, I know I won't be able to sleep tonight. It's useless to try―I'm too nervous and muddled. I'm only just wrapping my head around that I will be fighting to live in an arena that I am clueless to the conditions of. I know the basics. Grab what you need at the Cornucopia and run for cover. It's ingrained in my instincts. Flee. Don't fight. Hide from Careers and wait until they track you down. Perhaps mercy will be given for you, if you're extraordinarily lucky. Other districts have stolen the crown, but Capitol's favorites have a higher probability to win. Sponsors love the aggressors and gladly assist them in uprooting the weak tributes.

Am I a weak one?

No.

I'm not starving at home. I've never been desperate. Maybe that's not a good thing. Maybe these tributes―the ones half-mad with a will to live―can outlast me in the Games. Poorer children than I must be preparing themselves to murder at this very moment, unlike me, who will most likely panic and make Finn kill them for me. Still...I'm not a Career and I'm not a scrounger. I'm something in between.

Appeased with this conclusion, I find a new object to stare at.

* * *

><p>I'm stuck in someplace between sleeping and waking, dreaming but aware of my surroundings, and suddenly, I hear Leo's voice.<p>

"Up and at 'em!" He chirps from behind the door, sounding like he's clapping. _Again._ "Time to wake up!"

I roll out of bed before his words make me recall Mom's greeting from yesterday―Mom! I blink wildly, until I realize where I am.

A train. A train to Capitol. For the Games.

I sort through the clothes available to me, pull on a white shirt and a pair of slacks, brush my hair and teeth, and wander to breakfast.

I hold a laugh inside as I find Finn cramming more food into his mouth and Leo's disgusted expression at the head of the table.

"You'll get sick if you eat too fast," I warn, amused. Finn says something incomprehensible with a throaty laugh and I snicker.

"Quinn is right," Leo interrupts, eyeing Finn disapprovingly over his grapefruit. "Did your mother raise you in a barn?"

I'm afraid Finn will explode with rage because it's happened before, but surprisingly, he shoots back something clever with ease.

"Did your mother raise you in a den?" Finn mocks, eyes running over Leo's mane and sharpened canine teeth that I only notice now.

Leo glares, as if he just realizes how ridiculous he looks with the combination of his name and hair, but he doesn't speak up so I intervene.

"All right, relax," I interject. "Finn, don't be a pig. Leo, don't...comment on it. He's a boy. They're gross."

The two males grumble and shoot each other glowers but listen to me, and after we finish eating, Leo waves in our mentors.

Julia Domna finds a seat across from me as Antony Octavio sits down across from Finn. Leo makes his exit, scribbling on his notepad. I examine them carefully, remembering their presence in 7 in town. They possess the same darting eyes and quiet strength stemming from their victories. They've learned grace and poise throughout the years and yet seem so...withdrawn. Introverted. Televised interviews show their charisma but now, in front of Finn and I, they don't really bother to hide the wear and tear from their experiences as tributes. Julia keeps her hands in her lap, face a picture of coolness but is undoubtedly wringing the tablecloth with her fingers. Antony sits straight and still, but his eyes constantly rove, searching for danger only he expects. It's comforting to know that the best and strongest of Panem get scared, too.

Regardless of their fragility, Antony and Julia are seasoned killers. They know how to survive. They understand. They're here to help.

"Don't join the Career pack," Antony says abruptly, voice laced with certainty, plucking an orange from the bowl of fruit and turning it over in his hands. "They like to lure others in but anyone not in One, Two, or Four gets picked off first when the separation comes."

"If Claudius Templesmith calls everyone to a feast, find a good hiding spot and _then_ go look. Don't rush in blind," Julia instructs.

"Keep track of the dead tributes," the victors intone forcefully. Julia points a knife from the table at me, making sure I get it.

"Okay," Finn squeaks. Julia sets the knife down.

"What else?" I query.

"Finding water is top priority above everything else," Julia informs us. "Then it's making camp somewhere safe."

"Trees," Antony adds sternly. "Everyone from Seven knows how to climb. Don't be stupid and sleep on the ground."

Finn and I listen closely. Antony and Julia aren't reciting this for Capitol's benefit. They're pushing all this information because they want us to succeed and scrape a win. One of us, at least.

"Anything else?" I question.

"Later," Antony says, pushing in his chair and heading to the exit. "We're pulling into Capitol and you'll be off to meet your stylists."

He and Julia vanish as quickly as they came, without further ado. I sigh and step aside to let a Capitol attendant clean up the table.

Finn, meanwhile, rushes to the window to stare in awe at the grandest location in Panem.

I trail behind him and place my hands on the glass to see better, eyes widening at the shimmering structures. As much as I dislike it, I can freely admit that Capitol is breaktaking. Buildings stretch endlessly up into the clouds and seem to tilt and teeter back in forth in the wind. A hovercraft or two float above the streets jammed with shiny cars. Efficient systems that flick on traffic lights at precisely scheduled times and allow pedestrians to cross the streets. The city is so extravagant and dazzling, it's no wonder to me know where everyone's money goes.

"Check out that lady," Finn jeers, pointing. I lean over and follow his gaze, immediately wrinkling my nose.

"Ew. Orange skin? She looks like a carrot."

Finn laughs. "Or she spent too much time in the sun."

"That's Capitol for you," I comment wryly and Finn grins.

"I hope our prep teams aren't like that," he says with a shudder. "I'd freak out."

* * *

><p>They're a lot worse. So much worse.<p>

I'm assigned two men and a woman as soon as I enter the Remake Center, all cluttered with twirling fringes, jangling jewelry, skin dyed in colors so bright my eyes begin to strain, and all of them emblazoned with at least one tattoo (of what I can see). They cluck and chirp amongst themselves, continuously poking at me with tools (to wax or pluck or scrub) in order to beautify my body up to their standards. I don't question it, but bite my lip (until they squawk and tell me not to, because it'll look cataclysmically bad, I guess) and keep silent until they deem me finished and fully beautified. My skin feels a bit raw, like I've stepped into blizzard without an overcoat, but it'll fade soon.

The trio―Cesario, Metellus, and Thaisa―hand me a robe and I tug it on gratefully, pulling the sleeves past my wrists.

My stylist steps into the room as the prep team departs with cheery waves, and he offers a smile.

"Quinn, correct?"

"Yes," I answer, observing him as he is observing does the same, only with a pair of astonishing blue eyes. His hair, unlike the other, flashier Capitol citizens, isn't dyed an absurd color but is gelled and carefully arranged up, almost like Finn's, except it's more of a coppery shade.

"You can call me Lysander," he declares with a quick shake of my hand. "Now, let's go show you your costume."

Costumes, right. The ones that tributes get for the chariot parade through the City Circle. Tributes wear something akin to their district's principal industry, like a fishing getup for District 4 or something elaborate with yarn or thread for District 8. The country has not only a chance to admire or scorn an ensemble, but to see each tribute once again after the reapings, before the Games start.

District 7 hasn't been too bad in past years of ceremonies. We have a few more options than District 11 or 12.

Lysander leads me to an enormous closet and grabs a garment bag, instructing me to take off my robe. I acquiesce and close my eyes, allowing him to slide on something very formfitting and lead me to a chair. I'm glad to finally be able to sit down. I relish this chance to shut my eyes for awhile―I'm tired and a little cranky, and sleeping in peace won't happen again anytime soon―and let him go to work.

I don't know how long I've been dozing in my seat, head lolling, but Lysander's now tapping me on the shoulder, looking amused.

"You're all done," he tells me, beaming excitedly as I blink, knowing I shouldn't touch a face full of makeup. "Go ahead. Look."

I smile sheepishly and do as requested, and gasp in shock.

My blonde hair―something I'm proud of to a fault―has been dyed into a hue of electrifying orange that flows down my spine. Glitter dots my cheeks and my skin has the lightest tinge of green to it. My lips are painted in a vivacious red and as I take in the bizarre transformation of my appearance, Lysander guides me from my chair to the full length mirror to show it all. I stare at the layers of actual leaves wrapping and winding around my arms, legs, and chest, sewn intricately to the dark green dress I have on that ends at mid-thigh.

A word jumps into my brain. Brugmansia_._ Angel's Trumpet. It's plant we've studied before in school, and I resemble one perfectly with my hair mimicking the pendulous flower and my body the actual stalks that sprout from the ground. I recall a second key feature of Angel's Trumpet. It's poisonous. If ingested, it can be fatal. Lysander, behind this psychotically weird attire, has given me a distinct edge.

"Oh," I get out after a minute, because it's so disconcerting to see, much like Capitol itself. "I...wow."

He laughs goodnaturedly. "I'll take it."

"How did you―?"

"Long periods of research," he says with chuckle. "I never let my work be anything less than top notch."

"It's stunning," I agree.

Lysander beckons me out of the room and out to the elevators, where we meet up with Finn, and Viola, his stylist.

It takes all I have _not_ to burst out laughing at the sight before me and Finn knows by the look on my face. He grinds his teeth as we step into the elevator and I get a chance to see his costume fully. Poor Finn. He's dressed in an array of leaves as well, but it's more meant to emphasize our district's lumber enterprise, but it didn't work out. Leaves are weaved around his legs and down to his ankles, looking more like an odd pair of trousers than a costume. A headdress of twigs sits on his head and I see a set of wooden pipes attached to his hip. Altogether, he must be some sort of woodland sprite. We don't want to hurt Viola's feelings, though, so we don't talk about it.

However, right after she and Lysander leave us in the stable of the Remake Center with the other tributes, he curses.

"I look so stupid," Finn growls.

"It's not that bad," I fib lamely.

He glares at me. "You got the smart stylist. Viola's nice but this is so ugly. Everyone's gonna laugh."

"You look better than District Nine," I cajole. Finn glances over, seeing one tribute stuck in something like a loaf of bread, and smirks.

"That's true."

An attendant motions us to our chariot and we climb on, curling our hands over the brim to keep ourselves steady.

The other tributes start a line in chronological order, and the double doors open, allowing the procession to begin.

We hear Capitol's crowds already screaming and cheering, the noise extremely intimidating to me. Will they like my outfit, or mock it?

Finn and I hitch on convincing smiles. We need to look charismatic. Basic protocol, really. Sponsors won't help the irritable people.

"Here we go," I mutter, as our chariot is pulling outside into view.

An endless round of flashbulbs greet us, flickering and clicking and blinking fast so much my eyes start to water. Cameras blow up our image onto a big screen, allowing everyone to see us. The music's loud, speakers are shivering in their spots, nearly deafening me. Back home, I know my family and friends will be glued to their televisions, or just one, if they're grouped together at one house, for morale.

Carole's probably invited to dinner with my parents. Mom would do something considerate like that.

I won't let my smile drop. Finn and I even start waving. Some Capitol citizens begin to call our names and I grin a bit wider.

The rush is tremendous. The feeling of being adored by everyone is overwhelming, actually. I feel like a hero.

Finn, surprisingly, gets more into it than I do―he's blowing kisses and winking devilishly at the shrieking girls. I refrain from making fun of him again, especially after a Capitol boy or two jumps up to catch a phantom kiss. Finn turns beet red and looks hurriedly away.

Our chariot brings us to slow stop in front of President Snow's mansion and I examine at the leader of Panem with curious eyes. He looks a lot shorter in person and less obscure. He finishes quickly and offers a polite wave to the cheering crowds. The horses drag us to our new home, the Training Center. Here we will have a few days to learn the required techniques of survival in the arena and get scores from the Gamemakers. Scores are marks of potential for all to see, to stir up betting and sponsors into picking favorite tributes.

We climb off the chariot and Lysander and Viola are there to meet us. Lysander instructs me how to correctly wash the makeup off.

"Will my hair go back to normal?" I ask worriedly, twirling a tangerine colored strand around my finger. He laughs.

"Yes, yes. It's only temporary."

Leo finds us and I thank Lysander for his work. Leo, Finn, and I traipse to the elevators, shooting up the floor marked with _7._

Once again, we're allowed to our rooms and ordered to return for dinner.

Gratefully, I go inside, but bypass the ornate sitting room and nearly run to the bathroom in my haste to jump into the shower. Pressing randomly at the plethora of buttons available to me, I manage to scrub off the green painted on my skin and the orange coloring from my hair, watching the dyes circle down the drain. I grab a towel and get out of the shower, rubbing steam off the mirror.

I look tired. Very tired. Creating the appearance of someone enjoying their stay in Capitol is hard. I don't want to be here.

Finn must feel the same. We're far away from home and it feels wrong to be so into this whole thing. Celebrations for our arrival only prelude our entrance into the arena. We're treated royally because it's only a short time before we fight to the death.

I don't want to get sad again so I throw something together and stroll to the dining room.

Julia, Antony, Leo, and Finn are already waiting for me, and as soon as I sit down, Julia and Antony begin to discuss our interviews with Caesar Flickerman. Caesar will interview each tribute for exactly three minutes to give everyone a glimpse into their personality. Julia and Antony talk amongst themselves for a minute, shooting Finn and I speculative glances. Finn barely bats an eye but I want to know what I can do. How should I mold an identity that people will like? Finn says I'm friendly and sweet but I'm not sure that's true.

What can I, Quinn Fabray, do to be unique from the others?

Antony suggests that Finn go for the nice guy approach―a boy that just wants to win. Be honest, he says. Earn their respect.

Julia takes longer with me. She fires questions so fast, I don't have time to think. I just answer.

"Are you easily provoked?" Julia queries.

"No," I lie.

"She's chill. Quinn's like, the nicest person at school besides Brittany and Rachel," Finn adds inconsequentially, but Julia ignores it.

"You can be...competitive," she muses. "Combative. You want to win, don't you, Quinn?"

"Well, yeah," I say, raising my eyebrows. Is she testing me? Of course I want to win. I want to go home. Who doesn't?

"How much?" She asks.

"A lot," I reply, irritably. Finn's fork is frozen in the air, inches from his mouth as he watches us volley back and forth.

"Would you kill for it?"

Julia studies me closely while I refuse to blink. Antony is expressionless. Finn and Leo are silent. Lysander and Viola chew too loudly.

She knows the answer. She wants me to say it.

"Yes."

It's the truth. I can't escape the Games. I can't hide from other tributes because the Gamemakers will only draw me out. Yes, I would.

She nods, satisfied. I scowl.

"Right. You can be competitive. Be charming and challenging. Be mysterious―let everyone start wondering how you'll do it."

"Fine," I snap. Normally, I'm a mellow person, but my mentor is just rubbing me the wrong way and I'm stressed out enough already.

Julia only smiles at me.

"Save it for the arena," she remarks placidly. "I'm just doing my job."

I make sure to stab at my plate of chicken with particular force.

She just laughs.

* * *

><p>"I don't like her," I sulk.<p>

"Antony's a hardass," Finn grumbles.

We're sitting on a couch in Finn's room, nibbling on desserts. Technically we shouldn't be, because we'll need a good night's sleep for training tomorrow, but I didn't want to spend more hours just lying in the dark. Why not waste a few with somebody I actually like?

"They're trying to help but they can do it _without_ getting on our nerves," I mutter.

"I don't think they like us at all," Finn amends between bites of some chocolate cake.

That statement draws me up short to a conclusion I should've known much earlier. We're just one of the many. Finn and I aren't new kids in this business. Not even close. We're one of the faceless horde of kids that Julia and Antony have to somehow train, year after year. They're doing their best but being a mentor to a cause that isn't completely guaranteed for success must be tiring and saddening.

What if they get too attached? Their protégées won't last long, anyway. Why bother? Their antagonism is only a rebuff for their sanity.

"I should head back," I say instead of voicing my thoughts, setting my plate on a table. "Leo will freak if he finds me in here."

"Okay. Big training tomorrow," Finn yawns. "'Night."

I return to my room and crawl under the covers, close my eyes, and think of home.

* * *

><p>When Finn and I arrive in the dining room for breakfast in the morning, Antony questions if we'd like to be coached together or separately. I pick the former, because we've already come this far and I don't have something to hide from Finn. The meal is a bit subdued, and as soon as we're all finished, our mentors once again address us as Leo is muttering campaign strategies to himself.<p>

"What can you do?" Antony queries.

Finn sidles a look at me. What _can_ we do? Not much. He sings and I can too (not as well), with Rachel at school, but what else?

We can climb trees. Anyone strong enough in our district can, like Antony said before. Using an ax isn't that hard, either.

"Axes?" Finn guesses hopefully. "Scaling trees."

Julia and Antony instruct us to spend plenty of time at each training station, but more on ones we're unfamiliar with. Finn and I are soon zooming downstairs into the sub-basement Training Center, joining the assembly of tributes waiting around to be directed. Atala, the leader of the trainers, starts reading the rules. No sparring between tributes―it's strictly forbidden―and we'll break for lunch near noon.

I recognize some tributes from recaps. The extremely attractive pair from 1. A blonde boy from 5. Two teens that look related from 3.

I feel Finn's hand on my shoulder, breaking my gaze on the girl from 8. Maybe it's the bright smile, or the ambitious, confident air about her, but she reminds me so much of Rachel, it's uncanny. The similarities only grow. The cheerful gait. The self-satisfied expression. The voice.

"Quinn?"

"Yeah?"

Finn's eyes probe my face as I finally look away from the girl rushing to the knot station, eyebrows furrowing quizzically. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm...I'm okay," I respond, disconcerted and uneasy. "Let's, uh, let's go...do something."

Somebody that looks similar to Rachel will only mess up my game. Prolonged sentimental thoughts won't be of any assistance to me.

"Okay," Finn says finally in a placating tone, leaving it alone.

I avoid looking at the girl again as we meander to the camouflage station and find seats, looking up to the trainer for tips.

By the lunchtime hits, we've visited the camouflage, swordfighting, knots, and boxing stations, and I'm more than ready for this break. Green paint is still smeared on Finn's forehead and I have a big spot mud on my cheek, but being self-conscious here isn't an issue.

"You look gross," I comment bluntly, unsuccessfully hiding a grin. Finn rolls his eyes.

"We all do," he complains, chewing on an apple.

I examine the other tributes again. The Career districts are sitting together while everyone's mostly in silent pairs or alone.

This image makes me a bit sad. Shouldn't you have at least one friend before it's all gone?

Anyway, Gamemakers are eating lunch, too, since they appeared at eleven and simply observed from sidelines of the Training Center.

"Any idea what you'll do for your score?" I ask curiously.

"No," Finn replies, toying with his fork. "Maybe I can lift weights or something. Do you think singing for them is out?"

"That will give you a respectable four," I deadpan, and Finn frowns.

"What are _you_ doing?"

"Throwing an ax around," I shrug. I've done it at home. It's not too difficult, but I need to perfect my aiming. It needs a ton of work.

My eyes drift past Finn as he is considering his plans to the girl from 8 across the cafeteria. She's sitting with her fellow tribute, and the boy is plucking at his own sleeve unhappily, as if displeased with the ensemble. The girl's high chuckles reach my ears and I flinch.

"Okay, what's your deal?" Finn demands.

"Nothing."

Finn glares.

"That girl from Eight," I mutter. "She looks just like―"

"Rachel. I know."

I look away.

"You can't keep making connections like that," Finn advises me quietly, uncharacteristically serious. "I get it, though. It's happening to me. That trainer at the knots station looked like Brittany for a second and I freaked out. But we need to like...concentrate on this."

Finn sighs when I'm silent.

"Stop thinking of home," he pleads. "It'll distract us from being a good team and makes everything a lot harder."

"As long as you stop shoveling food in your mouth like you're having your last meal," I grumble.

"It could be," Finn points out. I scowl.

Finn takes the hint and changes the subject.

* * *

><p>Our next two days pass quickly. I achieve adeptness in making fires and wielding axes while Finn excels in spear-throwing and making shelters. Finn actually takes a liking to the edible insect station and I resolve to bring it up in front of Leo, just to see what happens. I find a preference for organizing snares and Finn becomes an expert in slingshots. All and all, the two of us will make a formidable duo.<p>

Julia and Antony press us for our progress but I let Finn answer it all. I won't say something I regret when I need them for sponsors.

At last, the time for the scoring comes. I won't lie, I'm nervous. I don't want to disappoint anyone―especially myself―with a low score.

I don't eat much during the last lunch in the Training Center as they begin calling each district, one tribute after another.

When Finn's been gone and it's my turn, I enter the gymnasium and find about a dozen inquisitive Gamemakers waiting for me.

Swallowing, I continue my march to the weapons and spot a shiny ax nestled amongst hatchets and lean over to grasp the handle.

Without pause, I spin on one heel and heave my arm sideways as if I was throwing a discus, a grunt of effort escaping my mouth. The ax whizzes noisily through the air like a frisbee and collides with a dummy halfway across the gym, slicing an arm off in one toss. I hear murmurs, some impressed, some doubtful, but I just ignore them and hasten to my ax and search for a new target. My aim still needs improvement but I want them to see that I can do it in the limited amount of time that I hold their attention. I tighten my grip on the handle and fling the ax again, thankfully not tripping over my own feet like I did at the Reaping. The weapon zings through the air and meets its end in the forehead of a new dummy, further away this time. I sense my time is shortening, so I hustle for a new mark.

I'm good, but I'm not spectacular. I need a harder hit, something more remarkable. Something a novice can't do.

_Although, it's a miracle the ax hasn't swung left and killed a Gamemaker by mistake_, I think.

I arrange my feet, let my gaze fall on a dummy, lift the ax over my head, and chuck it forward with as much force as I can muster.

Us―the Gamemakers and I―watch the ax spinning like a wheel in rapid rotations until it reaches its target.

That's it. A perfect hit. It has to be.

_It is._

The blade cuts clean through the material and clatters to the floor as the dummy sags in its spot, a gaping hole left behind in its chest. Stuffing falls out in wisps of cotton and I retrieve the ax, balancing the blade on the floor beside my foot and glance over to my audience.

"Thank you," the Head Gamemaker acknowledges, cordially. "You may leave, Miss Fabray."

I dip into a half-bow, keeping a smile at bay, and obediently vanish.

* * *

><p>"How did it go?" Antony asks.<p>

"Fine."

Finn looks at me once and grumbles that I look _smug_ so it must've been excellent. Leo peers up from his notes, raising an eyebrow.

"Well?" He presses eagerly, speaking for the whole group.

"You'll just have to wait and―"

"What did you do?" Julia interrupts, bored. "Enlighten us, please. _Before_ I turn ninety..."

I give her a saccharine smile, enjoying the brief moment of genuine annoyance in her eyes until she composes herself.

And who says victory is only for the Games? Bothering Julia has just become my new favorite challenge.

She doesn't have time to provoke me for more information because Leo's shepherding us to the television to view the results.

Relishing my winning of this round in the dispute between me and my mentor, I study the tributes on the screen. The Careers earn eights and nines, easy. 3 and 5 are average and 6 isn't much better. Finn's dimpled smile flashes on screen with a flickering seven.

"Nice," he grins, high-fiving Lysander and Antony and shooting me a wink. I stick my tongue in reply.

My picture follows Finn's and I smile in relief at the eight I receive. Leo, Lysander, and Viola clap a little, offering congratulations to us.

"Not bad," Antony remarks, sounding pleased, for once. Julia nods in agreement.

"More than I expected from either of you," she says, eyes fixed on the tributes of 8. The Rachel lookalike earns a five. Not so great.

We watch until the girl from 12 is shown and Leo orders Finn and I to bed as if we were little kids.

"Good job," Finn smiles as we stroll down the corridor to our rooms.

"Better than most," I add. "What did you end up doing?"

"Not much," he shrugs offhandedly. "Threw spears at the wall. I got some at the same spot, so I guess that was good."

I smile. "I wouldn't worry too much. We've done okay so far."

Finn bumps his fist with mine, instigating goofy grins on both of our faces.

Maybe we'll be just fine.

* * *

><p>I spend the next day with Julia and Leo, preparing for my interview with Caesar Flickerman. Separately, but it's still awful and exhausting. Leo quizzes me on things to say and reprimands everything I say wrong, because it's crucial to be flawless on television. When I'm starting to lose what little hope I have in society, my fourth hour in Leo's presence ends and I'm brought to Julia. Unfortunately, she's the greater of two evils.<p>

Julia doesn't want to do this session. Neither do I. Perhaps we're too different to mesh cohesively as mentor and tribute, but I digress.

"Like I said before," she says listlessly, "don't be stupid or idiotic and it'll be fine."

"That's it?" I ask, frustration evident in my tone. How does she even have this job? She's terrible at it.

"That's it."

Alarmingly, she refuses to say anything more and I make sure to slam the door on my way out. It's childish, yes, but she's required to help me but she's done nothing except provoke me and offer veiled insults. Maybe Finn and I should've swapped. Antony would probably be a lot nicer.

I sulk in my room and don't breathe a word at dinner, despite Lysander and Finn's blatant attempts to include me.

I barely sleep and in the morning, my prep team returns and make aghast comments on the bags under my eyes.

"How dreadful," Cesario says, voice shrill. "But don't fret, dear. We have the tools to fix this."

"Great," I lie glibly, wishing I could crawl back into bed.

The prep team descends without further conversation and I am revamped and glamorized for the entire day, sitting on a chair in the middle of the room as the trio of beauticians circle me. Thaisa curls my hair a little, making it a bit wavy. Cesario dabs my face with something powdery but shakes his head, chiding himself, and removes it, opting for some pleasant smelling paste instead. Metellus applies a bunch of makeup under my eyes and dusts my skin carefully with a tiny brush. I manage to keep still for the whole thing, fortunately.

"Simple," Metellus says thoughtfully at one point. "Uncomplicated but elegant. Lysander was right."

Finally they finish and we part ways as Lysander steps into the room, arms laden with a garment bag and lips curled up in a smile.

He backs up a foot after he's helped me into my newest outfit and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, looking for imperfections.

"Excellent," he remarks, eyes twinkling, and gestures grandly to the mirror.

Lysander's creations are something I'm beginning to look forward to, so I lean over and feel a smile of my own grow quickly.

Lysander has transformed me into a nymph, yet another illustration the tree concept of my district. Nymphs are deities associated with nature and my dress has been decorated as such. The fabric itself is white and delicate, almost gauzy. Around my waist is a thick sash of emerald green, accenting the gossamer nicely. Lysander offers me a matching headband and flats and I slide both on, careful not to ruin my hair. I find a sense of relief in my heart when I look to the mirror again. I'm not in something overly flashy or ostentatious, like my costume. It's...natural, like home. Even the products on my skin conform to the image―Metellus created an ethereal, graceful effect.

"I like it," I murmur at last, enjoying the greenish color that flutters in front of my face when I blink, courtesy of some eyeshadow.

"Good," Lysander nods. "How are your nerves doing?"

"Not here," I answer truthfully. "I think."

"Excellent," Lysander repeats, smiling approvingly. "Remember to relax, Quinn. Deep breaths, stay calm, and it'll be fine."

"I hope so," is my only reply.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

I instruct my mind to do what Lysander said and sit in silence beside Finn in a line of tributes, all of us on a stage in the City Circle. Finn's in a mildly acceptable viridian suit, but keeps fiddling uneasily with his tie. Cameras hang from support beams and others are pushed around by dollies, red lights blinking from beside the lens, revealing which device is currently broadcasting at a certain angle.

Casear Flickerman is dressed in his customary suit but his hair is always different, year after year. For these Games, it's fuchsia.

I watch the other tributes as they go up to speak with Caesar, listening to some eager responses and some tense, uncomfortable ones, appreciating the kind moderator's attempts to make things easier. He understands what predicament we're in, and tries to assist us.

He has the raven-haired girl with a stutter from 6 gush about her love for dancing. He makes the blonde boy from 3 go into detail about his talent for drawing. He has Finn manage to appear endearing in his apprehension and brings out the sweetheart from home that I know. When it's my turn, I stand up and meander to Caesar, oddly separated from my jitters, and shake his hand with a smile as artificial as his hair color.

We sit.

"Quinn Fabray," Caesar intones, a playful glint in his eye. "Scored an eight in training. Excellent work."

Somehow I'm reminded of Lysander and I nod.

"Thank you," I grin and the crowd claps appreciatively. They don't know much about me yet. They're wondering, though, which is good.

"Guessing blind, but I'm _assuming_ it has something to with an ax," he jokes.

That could apply to any tribute from my district in any year of the Games, so it's really lame, but it's Caesar, so it works out.

"Maybe," I demur, but keep my tone friendly. He breaks into an amiable beam―how the man does escapes me―as the audience titters.

Caesar asks about my life back home in 7 and I keep it as simple, explaining little things like observing Dad's job and teaching my nephews how to say my name because it's a tough one. The interview's surprisingly easy to do and I'm glad to know that I can control my stage fright. The minutes are waning so Caesar wraps up with a simple question of my hobbies. I answer honestly: singing with my friends in our school choir.

And mimicry, but I don't say that aloud.

"Singing?" He trills. "Oh, you _must_ show us. Should she?"

The audience replies with agreeable shouts.

I shake my head as bashfully as I can and Caesar tuts in disappointment (genuine or not, I don't know) at the sound of the buzzer.

"Drat. Well, perhaps a victory will let us hear your undoubtedly pleasant tones. I wish you luck, Miss Fabray."

I return to my seat almost giddy with relief.

Our last meal before the Games is free of arguments. Finn and Leo are amicable. Julia and I are polite and conversational.

Finn and I follow our mentors, stylists, and Leo into the lounge to watch the recaps, and Leo sneaks in a few enthusiastic claps.

However, he is quiet after that, and when it's time for bed, he looks especially forlorn.

"I hope...I hope the arena is good," he mumbles mournfully, and then explains he's not very good at these sort of things.

I wonder if he ever will be. The Games will only continue after me―he must get used to it, or take up some other vocation.

He shakes Finn's hand and hugs me, and I find a special spot in my heart just for him and his oblivious, harmless personality.

Antony and I exchange civil nods but Julia only looks at me, as if she can't decide how to perform or verbalize a goodbye.

"Thanks," I state, more of a formality than an actual truth. "For the tips."

"I'm just doing my job," she reminds me, reiterating her words from several nights ago, but there's a reluctant compassion to them.

"Yeah..." I trail off, unsure of what to say.

"If it matters," she pauses, scrutinizing me with an apathetic gaze, "I think you're a fighter. Something tells me you'll do well."

There she goes again. She focuses on me and then, somehow, our conversations get bitter and distant, more and more each time we speak. I don't understand it. The compliment means nothing because she looks like she's offering it as a lie, shadowed by her facade of courtesy.

"You two should head to your rooms," Antony interjects, sending Julia a look. He doesn't tack on a 'big day tomorrow' like Leo does, I notice.

"Thanks for everything," Finn says sincerely, much kinder that I was, and I nod. We owe them. A little.

We're soon walking alone together to our bedrooms and I stifle a sigh. Tomorrow looms like a storm cloud and I can't shake the unease.

I could be returning home tomorrow, but not in the way I want. Not in the way Rachel wants. Or needs.

Before I can sink further into depressing thoughts of my own demise, Finn pulls me into a tight hug. I automatically curl my arms around his neck, and we stand in heavy silence, not daring to breathe too loudly. As for goodbyes, it isn't much, but Finn is being positive and _optimistic _about this situation, quite like Rachel is back home, so for all intents and purposes, it isn't a farewell, but merely a 'see you later'.

Finn's eyes are bright as we part and he looks down at me with nervous certainty, shifting from foot to foot.

"Good luck," he whispers in a rush, because we're blissfully unaware of the horrors awaiting us in the arena and it's scary to think about.

Will this be the last time I see Finn, living and unharmed? I can't shake the feeling of utter helplessness that began at the Reaping.

He looks so frightened and unsettled and so not _Finn_ that I can only wish he'll be sent back to 7 with a crown of victory on his head.

"You too," I affirm just as softly, squeezing his hand. He holds on for a minute, and I let him, needing the closeness and security.

"Remember our code word," he mumbles. He means the address we'll use to identify each other in the arena after the bloodbath.

"I will," I breathe.

I let go first.

"See you tomorrow?" I question. Finn grins with false bravado―I see his composure wavering, though―and offers me a mock-salute.

"Yeah...see you."

I twist my lips up in something resembling a smile, and turn around, willing myself to continue walking and not look back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** The Girl with the Ax

**Author:** animatedbrowneyes

**Section:** (2/5)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters within the Hunger Games or Glee; I just borrow them.

I'm glad of the response to this! Thanks for reading, everyone! Enjoy!

* * *

><p>"Quinn, Quinn, wake up..."<p>

Rachel's voice is different, and her song ends abruptly, to my bewilderment and disappointment. She looks at me curiously, too, as if she's wondering why she can't finish the verse. Her lips move, against her will, but her tone is several octaves deeper, further confusing me.

_Sing_, I want to beg. _Keep singing, please. Don't stop, please. I can't bear to leave you again, not ever again._

"Quinn," she repeats firmly, but her image is blurry and distorted. "It's morning...no sleeping through the Games..."

The Games?

I wake up.

My vision clears, slowly, and after a few seconds, I see Lysander leaning over me, a cautious smile on his face.

"Good morning," he greets. "Sleep well?"

"Sort of," I admit. Rachel lingers in my thoughts but I nudge her out, ruefully, because I need to concentrate on here and now. Lysander extends his hand to me as I sit up from my bed and leads the way to the roof. I'm still clad in my pajamas, but I'll get ready in the hovercraft.

We wait only a minute when a ladder descends soundlessly from the sky. I climb up on the rungs and get frozen to the handles.

An electric current vibrates up my arms as I am lifted into the hovercraft, and once inside, I'm met with a kind-eyed Capitol nurse holding a syringe. I remain still as she instructs, but wince at the needle pricking my skin. The nurse explains that it's only a locator for the Gamemakers, so they won't lose me in the arena. I don't think it's a good thing, but I don't my thoughts aloud and step off the ladder when the current vanishes. Lysander joins me as the nurse disappears, and the hovercraft ascends, taking us away from Capitol in one quick sweep.

We make it to the Launch Room and Lysander and I go to lunch, but I hardly notice what I'm nibbling on. Each bite only reminds me of my impending doom, only about an hour away, and I find it hard to chew. Lysander, doesn't push for conversation and points me to the bathroom, where I shower and pause in front of the mirror once I'm finished, holding my towel around my body. My reflection, with dilated eyes, ashen skin, and a grim set of a mouth, stares back at me. Expression haggard and wan, I study myself for a moment longer.

All the worry and jitters that lingered in the back of my head rushes to the surface and for a second, I'm paralyzed with cowardice. My heart―beating steadily now―could be silent in less than forty minutes. I could return home today as a corpse, bringing despair on those I care about back in 7. I inhale deeply, shaking the feeling back into my limbs. I can't do that. I can't imagine my own end. I have to―I _must_―force myself to try. For me and for everyone back home. I can't let the Games get to me and distract me from the goal: victory.

An image of a crown being lowered on my head and the ovation of Capitol paints a pleasing mirage and I bask in it for a moment.

It's too sweet to be real, so I let it float away and wander back to the chilly, somber realms of reality.

I exit the bathroom without a second glance and Lysander hands me the authorized clothes of a tribute. Underwear, dark pants, a long-sleeve shirt, a thick belt with a few notches to clip any gear to, socks, and bulky boots. I frown at them, questioning their applicability, but perhaps climbing will be better than running, at least this time. I straighten out Rachel's necklace, keeping it hidden beneath my shirt for safety.

Lysander watches me pace with ambivalent eyes, drumming his fingers on his knee. He looks just as antsy as I do.

Somehow, I hadn't considered how he feels. It didn't occur to me―he does work for Capitol. Shouldn't he only be concerned with money?

His gaze looks so...distressed. It's so jarringly different from his usual composure that I slow to a stop, peering at his features.

"Are you okay?" I ask blandly, despite the fact that _I'm_ about to leave for the arena and he'll be safe and secure.

"Be careful," Lysander orders, fierce, not answering me as he rises to his feet, blue eyes boring into mine. "Okay?"

Maybe he is marred by the Games, too. Maybe working with children, year after year, and knowing that they won't come back is daunting.

"Okay," I say, "but―"

He shakes his head just as a robotic voice, coming from the ceiling, informs me that is time for my launch into the Games.

Lysander guides me to the circular plate where I will rise into the arena, and my throat tightens.

This is it. My spine stiffens and I grind my teeth together, feeling cold and quivery and weak all over. I will myself not to lose focus.

My face will be on the television screens at home in a matter of minutes. I rearrange my expression to cool indifference to mask the terror.

I need everyone to believe that I can do this. Sponsors, family, friends, and Rachel. Maybe then, I'll finally be able to do the same.

My jaw clenches almost painfully as I stand as still as a stone on the plate and Lysander's gaze on me is hard and resigned.

"Goodbye, Quinn," he murmurs just before the glass slides up, separating us.

I rest my fingertips on the glass, sharing one final, grim look with my stylist, and the plate squeaks, lifting me up into a breezy, sightless oblivion. Fluffy clouds surround me on all sides. I can only see as far as my boots and the plate's edge, but I don't dare step off it.

I can feel the sun's warmth above me, but I can't see it. The mist of white is nervewracking―I can't see my competition and the confining prison of the clouds is blinding me from them and the arena itself. Shouldn't I be able to see anything ahead of me? Other Games (all of them, actually) have let everyone see what they're dealing with before they even enter the arena. Anxiety stirs in my stomach. My minute on the plate is ticking down fast and the Gamemaker created fog enveloping around me is a hindrance for my success. Why do we get stuck with this disadvantage?

Can everyone in Panem see my face? Are cameras lurking in the gloom, watching my reaction to being hidden from my obstacles?

A gust of salty air tickles my skin as the voice of Claudius Templesmith, the perpetual announcer of the Games, rumbles above me.

"Ladies and gentleman, let the Forty-First Hunger Games begin!"

His edict hasn't echoed for more than a second before the plate slants sharply sideways at a forty-five degree angle, and I fall.

* * *

><p>I'm a good climber. Everyone in my district is. We're in the forest so much, you sort of have to be, unless you're old or sick or something. Falling happens occasionally, even to the best and spryest up in the branches. I remember one day, a few years ago, I was scaling an elm with Rachel and didn't pay attention to where I was stepping, and tumbled feet first to the ground, spraining my ankle and earning a scolding from Mom.<p>

The actual fall was far more terrifying than the pain, from what I recall, and I'd made sure to be more careful.

This fall is different and the brief, heartstopping instant of ignorance is horrible before I catch a glimpse of the arena.

I plummet like a stone towards a foreboding ocean, voice trapped in my throat. Other tributes are screaming but the noise is cut off when I plunge into the sea, current pulling me down a bit into the icy depths. I'd managed to suck in a breath at the last moment, but my chest is already beginning to hurt. I surface with a gasp, hearing splashes and shouts. In the distance, a dozen heads are paddling along towards the shore―the shore! I spot a low cliff with a slew of rocks around it, holding the glinting Cornucopia with the supplies I will need to survive.

The first two tributes to reach the Cornucopia are familiar. I squint and realize that it's District 4―both are well suited to this environment.

_Great._

I start moving immediately. There isn't any time to waste and I can't let the others gain more ground than they already have.

I slip through the waves at a steady pace but conserve my energy. Swimming, luckily, is a skill of mine. There's a big lake, close to the district on the east side, where we go on field trips during the summer. I've known how to swim since I was small, so I'm not uncomfortable in the water.

The shore's still a ways away, but the Cornucopia's shine is like a beacon in the sun. Not long now.

Suddenly, I hear a terrible, chilling scream to my right, and I stop, kicking my feet to stay in place. I look around in confusion.

The water is bleeding.

I give a double-take, not trusting my eyes's initial look.

A creature from beneath the water―I don't know what it is, exactly―arises as quick as a flash, opening its mouth to reveal rows of teeth, gaping in a wicked smile. Black eyes blink mindlessly, jutting out from each side of its head as its gray body comes into view, limbs (or are they fins) sleek and sharp. Another scream pierces the air as the sea monster clamps its jaws on the body. The water turns into a vivid shade of crimson.

I race from the site as fast as I can, pumping my arms and legs and continuing to the shore. I don't want to meet the same end as that tribute.

I clamber onto the nearest rock, jumping from one to the other, boots slipping a little in my haste. Only several tributes have made it so far.

I reach stable ground, breathing hard, and sprint to the supply of goods as the blonde boy from District 3 rushes at me.

Thankfully, he's weaponless and I'm ready for him. I dodge his reaching hands and punch him square in the face, right at his weirdly puffy lips.

He hits the ground with a yelp, flat on his back, hands covering his mouth, but I'm long gone, running for the stack of backpacks. I snatch a green one and examine the pile of weapons for a second, seizing a handle from the stack and taking off before someone else can try to stop me.

I'm a bit surprised at the lack of pursuers, but I guess it's because of the ocean obstacle. I don't think everyone knows how to swim like I do.

Trudging away from the Cornucopia, I'm in a valley, with a mountain looming on my right and a forest ahead of me and to my left. I keep moving, clutching the strap of my backpack with one hand and my weapon―a long knife―in the other. Bewildered at myself for not noticing what item I had taken, I traipse up a hill and turn around. My escape route has brought me to a slope, so I can see the other tributes below, fighting for supplies or struggling to stay afloat in the water. The ocean is tinted purple. The sea monster must've claimed a second victim.

My gaze lands on the tributes darting around the Cornucopia, and to my horror, I see two crouching by the rocks, drowning those that approach.

I resume my trek. Tributes that survive will be heading my way and I need to find a safe place to make camp for the night.

The air's hot and humid, a lot different from my home's northern, chilly climate. My throat is dry and my joints are aching, but I persevere.

The ground flattens out as I climb out of the valley and blend into the cover of the trees, grateful for the break from the sun. My boots are hard to maneuver over roots but I ignore it and keep my pace, chest heaving. The exertion of the terrifying fall, swim, and flight from the dangers of the Cornucopia are taking their toll the longer I go without water. I doubt the Gamemakers would give me any in my pack. That'd be too easy.

Speaking of easy...

The average tribute could've made it. I did. I'm not extraordinarily strong, nor am I weak, so something seems amiss to me. It's...too simple.

The boy from District 3 isn't a good enough impediment. I'm one of the few that survived the first challenge. I'm bound to be in for trouble.

I wonder if I'm being too cynical, but this is the Hunger Games. Catching tributes unawares is a frequent indulgence of the Gamemakers.

I pause for breath, leaning against a tree. I've been on the move for an hour. The beach is far behind me. I have a head start on any adversaries.

Examining the forest around me, I note that any tree would provide an adequate hiding place. Thick fronds drape down from crisscrossing branches, connecting one tree to another. I crane my neck, spotting several sites to construct a bed of leaves, if I don't have a sleeping bag.

I decide to go further, perhaps another half hour of walking. I'm weary but I can deal with it well enough. Maybe I'll find a stream or a creek.

Problem is, I don't know if there is any iodine in my backpack.

Straightening up and inhaling deep, I readjust the backpack's weight on my shoulders and change my grip on the knife, winding my way into a denser, darker part of the jungle. The leaves are harder to cut through and I blink sweat from my eyes, heart reverberating loudly in my ears.

I climb over a root, hoping my tread isn't too loud. I don't know what predators―human or beast―are concealed in the forest with me.

The path clears a little, and I lift my gaze to the canopy, deliberating on a spot to sleep. There! A tree that's high up, shielded from view by a plethora of smaller trees and mess of plant life. Relieved, I bustle over in that direction, but I'm so blinded by my narrow-minded exhaustion that I don't immediately notice the earth's strange composition. My right boot sinks a foot into the ground, swallowed up into a mire of quicksand.

_Quicksand_!

I gasp, not concerned with my potential sponsors at the moment, undoubtedly watching me panic and placing their bets. The bog is pulling me down with unnatural speed and I claw at a root, gripping it with rigid fingers and nearly throwing my back out trying to yank my leg free. I'm forced to toss my knife aside with my free hand, and after my knee disappears into the pit, the backpack. Gritting my teeth, I squeeze the root with both hands, the stretch sending flashes of pain up my spine. Movement only brings me an inch lower and more vulnerable to other tributes.

Chagrined, I grimace. I'm easy prey at this point. Chances are, I'm far enough away from everyone, but still, if someone happened upon me...

I stop moving, panting for breath. Shifting and squirming about only traps me more into the quagmire. I force myself to remain still.

Why, _why_ couldn't I have paused and grabbed an ax instead? That would've helped me pull myself out without an issue.

My hair flops down in front of my face and I huff irritably, strands of blonde almost entirely hiding my eyes. I don't dare swat at it with my hand, though, in fear of losing my grip and being wrenched into the muddy abyss.

I can't stay here forever. I have no way to defend myself and I'm running out of time. I need to get out now.

How long have I been stuck here? Ten minutes? Twenty? The Careers could be on me at any moment and I'm a sitting duck.

I turn my head, chin resting on my forearm. My arms are sore and I'm sweaty and there's splintering pressure in my lower back, but I'm too busy staring at the quicksand to care. The quicksand is _solidifying_. The texture is still slimy and sodden, but in some places, it's caking into a thick clay, almost a dirt. That must be the trick. The way out that's ignored. The Gamemakers are sly―they are counting on tributes to get hysterical and attempt to break free, thus snaring the victim further into the trap. If I stay still long enough, the pit will be dry and easy to wriggle out of.

I listen hard as I wait, keeping my guard up.

Nothing. I can hear a few birds chirping and leaves rustling here and there, but no telltale signs of danger. If there were, I'd hear nothing at all.

I calm down a little. I'm okay. I'm okay. The Games aren't over for me just yet.

What I do hear makes me anxious. _Boom! Boom!_ The cannon fire announcing the dead tributes occurs at last. I count up to seven. Seven shots. Seven dead in the bloodbath. Twenty-four minus seven gives me the realization that there are seventeen tributes left to play in the Games.

Knowing I'm one of them, I redirect my thoughts elsewhere.

I wonder how everyone at home is doing. I don't know what time it is...maybe four o'clock, at least? My friends are out of school by now.

Is Rachel watching me now? Or my parents, Charlotte, and John? And Puck, Santana, and Brittany?

Sighing to alleviate the very different kind of ache in my chest, my chin droops, eyes catching the golden chain of Rachel's necklace tucked under my shirt. I stifle a small, wistful smile. Having her necklace as a token is extremely important―it keeps me reminded of the goal to return to her.

I wait several more minutes before chancing a wiggle.

_Yes!_

I was right. The quicksand has turned to a mass of semisolid globs. I won't get complacent, though. It must be sensitive and prone to rapid change, especially if it's a Gamemaker invention. _Slow_, _slow_, I think, repeating the order in my head. Rushing will only start the process all over again. I bit my lip, shifting an inch. Anxious at the delicate nature of my endeavor, I let spans of time pass before risking movement. Little by little, I'm able to lift my leg out of the bog. Thigh, knee, ankle, foot, free! I scramble into action even though I'm so tired, snatching my backpack and knife and stepping away from the path. Knowing now that the seemingly easy looking path is actually treacherous, I stick to climbing over and under roots. I've wasted a lot of time. There's no denying it―I must journey even further than I anticipated, for my own safety.

I abandon the tree I chose and travel for a little over an hour, head pounding and breathing heavily. I'll get water, first thing tomorrow.

Dizzy and nauseated, I squint, concentrating against the sickening vision of my world spinning before my eyes. Now isn't the time for weakness. I need to set up camp now. It'll be dark soon and everyone who's anyone knows that the Careers like to hunt at night by torchlight. I refuse to be one of their kills. I lick my lips, clipping the knife to my belt and clambering up the nearest tree, using the other branches as a ladder.

I pull myself up, ground becoming farther and farther away. I don't risk looking down and continue climbing.

Fifty feet in the air is good. It's good. I slow and settle on a fork, leaning back against the trunk, catching my breath.

My position grants me a limited view of the island―_arena_, I amend―but I can see the horizon and the sunset, sending yellow flecks into the sky.

I've made it.

I've survived the first day of the Hunger Games. The night, however, lies ahead. I doubt anyone will find me. I've got a day's hike on them.

Still, I've done better than a typical tribute, which is certainly worth noting.

Comforted at the thought, I give myself a bit more resting time before examining the contents of my backpack. Inside, I find a compass, a box of matches, a first aid kit (full of thread, a needle, and gauze), a thick jacket, and finally, a single apple. Grudgingly pleased, I take a bite, savoring the first meal I've had since my eleven o'clock lunch with Lysander. The pickings aren't spectacular, but looks can be deceiving. The compass will grant me direction. The jacket for cold nights. The first aid kit is self-explanatory. The matches for cooking fires, but I'll need to use those cautiously. I don't need smoke wafting up and giving away my location. The apple is something to get me by until I can scrounge up some―

_Finn!_

The chunk of the apple in my mouth is spit out in my coughing fit, and I struggle to end it quickly, throat burning with the effort. Oh, no! I've forgotten Finn! How could I? My best friend and ally? The guy I've known since I could walk? My _neighbor_? I've been so consumed with my own issues that I let Finn slip from my mind and didn't think of him all day. We're supposed to work together and I can't believe I forgot about him.

I'm nearly done packing up my things before I realize that it'd be incredibly dangerous to leave my spot at all. The sun is lowering and the sky is darkening. I must be miles away from the Cornucopia and I don't even know if Finn's alive at this point. Self-preservation and loyalty war in my head but shame overpowers them both. Finn is my best friend. Of course he comes before my security. Despondency fights with shame. Why bother? I don't know if Finn is dead or not. My fingers grip the half-eaten apple, now lacking an appetite. _Finn's favorite_, I remember unhappily.

I sit, unable to decide, frowning. What is _wrong_ with me? I _should_ go find him. I shouldn't hesitate. He would do the same for me.

I'm about to leave when I hear Capitol's anthem begin, and I look up at the sky. I'll just have to wait and see. I have to know if Finn made it.

I feel strangely detached about the whole thing. I don't know what it is. Delayed shock? Drowsiness? Irrational fear taking over my mind?

Finally the anthem ends and I get to see the tributes that did not survive the first day of the Forty-First Hunger Games. Remembering Antony and Julia's advice to keep track of them, I pay close attention to the list. Headshots appear, revealing each face of the deceased. To my surprise and discomfort, the blonde boy from District 3 is the first one to be shown, probably leaped upon for his weakness right after I punched him. That means that both tributes from 1 and 2 are alive. Careers are always the strongest contestants and have the best odds. The list skips to the girl from District 5, then to the boy from 8, then the boy from 9, the girl from 11, and lastly, both tributes from 12. Seven dead altogether and seventeen left to play. Finn is one of them. Relieved, I relax, nerves vanishing for the moment. Finn's okay. He got away. He's safe for now.

I'll stay here in this tree for tonight. Tomorrow, I'll find a spring or something and hopefully, Finn as well. I'm too tired to move on, anyway.

I keep my backpack in my lap, saving what's left the apple for breakfast. It's not sealed, so I need to eat it or it'll go bad.

The night is warm and balmy and I take off my jacket, bunching it up to use as a pillow. I unclip my belt and wind it around the tree to keep me secured. It's not a perfect position―I'm sitting up, hoping I don't fall off or strangle myself overnight―but it's better than sleeping on the ground.

I close my eyes and gratefully allow sleep to drag me into its clutches.

* * *

><p>A loud squawk wakes me up and I wince. My neck is stiff and my limbs twinge with fatigue from yesterday's perils. My throat is dry.<p>

I rub my eyes, blocking the mid-morning sunlight sparkling through the trees with my hand. I dig through my bag and nibble on the rest of the apple. Food and water will be my main incentives for today and searching for them will certainly be an adventure.

And finding Finn, wherever he's hiding. That won't be easy, either. My brief, bird's eye view of the arena showed me that it was miles wide.

I wonder if the Careers got any kills last night, but I won't find out until tonight.

Determined to remain optimistic, I unbuckle myself and refasten my belt around my hips and tuck my jacket into my bag. I don't think I'll need it. This arena seems to stay the same, but I don't doubt the Gamemakers' errant fancies. Sometimes they send freak storms and other calamities. For entertainment, of course. The Hunger Games must always keep Capitol amused.

I clip my knife to my belt and sling my bag over my shoulders, peering down at the ground for a second, wary of lurking tributes.

_Oh, shit._ In my urgency to find shelter yesterday, I didn't notice my obvious tracks on the forest floor, left behind by these bulky boots. Granted, I used tree roots more often than not to get around in fear of more quicksand spots, but a stray trail or overturned frond could lead an able-bodied tracker right to me, human or beast alike. I curse, vowing to pay more attention to my strategy and be more alert to my surroundings. I can't be so careless again. This isn't a gym exercise or silly school event―I'm facing heavy odds that more than likely are piling up to indicate my death.

I wait a moment before climbing down, landing with nothing more than a small crunch on leaves.

I grab a rock, starting to chisel a rough square into my tree. It's not too overt and it'll help when I want to get back here. The jungle around me is a gigantic maze, so I need some sort of marker to find this area again. It's not much of anything, really. A small clearing and my tree, but I want to have something that I can call home. This little section of the forest can just be mine. Maybe it can be my oasis in the arena.

I finish and toss the rock into the bushes, unclipping my machete for protection just as the sound of running feet hits my ears.

I flinch and duck out of sight, internally cringing at how ridiculous and cowardly I must look on camera.

Well, I'd rather be a cautious competitor, hiding in safety, than a brazen, reckless dolt with a death wish.

The noise gets louder and I tighten my grip on the handle of my weapon, uncertain and not entirely sure if I'm ready to attack someone yet.

Shouldn't I be ready? There isn't any time left to prepare myself. Sooner or later, I'll be forced to kill and avoiding it will only delay the inevitable.

The sound is different now as it approaches, I realize, distracted from my thoughts. It's not running feet, but _something_ else...

The bushes rustle and something black leaps out of them, about the size of a dog, snorting and snuffling with long tusks on each side of its mouth.

I grin. _Excellent_! Boars! All I need to hunt one of those is a net and a spear. And Finn, because a partner against an angry mother hog is necessary. Getting used to the arena's options won't be too hard. My body can take the dietary change.

The boar pauses in my clearing, as if sensing my presence, but hurries on and disappears right past my hiding spot, oinking until I can't hear it anymore. I opt to go where it came from. Surely it has a water source somewhere close―I didn't see any on my hike from the Cornucopia. Adopting a slow tread, I continue on my way. The woods are quiet this morning. The other tributes must be asleep, or camped out somewhere else in the arena.

The dry feeling in my throat returns as I climb over a boulder, exertion making a huff escape my mouth.

I know I only have another day or two before I fully succumb to dehydration. Food isn't a problem, but I will need water as soon as possible.

I stop for a quick break when the sun is creeping higher into the sky and lick my lips, parched and exhausted. I rack my brain, trying to think if I'd seen a stream or something in yesterday's flight into the forest. Would the Gamemakers let us all shrivel up and die of thirst? It seems wasteful. Our bloodbath was scarce, so perhaps they're adding to the drama of a lot of tributes to the fact that none of us―that I know of―have any water at all. The Careers probably do, though. All six of them had their choice of spoils at the Cornucopia.

I wipe sweat from my forehead and start walking again, listening to the gentle chirping of birds just overhead.

The forest gives way a little and I tense, seeing no one but feel uneasy. One of the most frightening part of the Games is not the danger or perils, but the anticipation of the danger. Some tributes have gone insane, convinced they'll be killed in a matter of minutes by some unknown assailant. I will myself to remain alert but not paranoid, and head into darker patch of the forest, where the sun cannot reach completely. Shadows stretch from the light streaming through breaks in the canopy, making this section of the jungle seem eerie and mysterious.

I've been moving for about an hour before I can recognize a looming shape in the distance. Aware that I could be walking into a risky situation, I squint, grip tight on my weapon. Suddenly, I relax. It's a small litter of caves. There's nobody around, of what I can see, so I get closer, curious. Does a muttation live inside? It's foolhardy to go in blind and investigate, but I'm not thinking clearly and I want to know what lies within.

Nervous, I inch along the entrance, listening for sound or movement. Nothing, again.

I kneel down, crawl inside and stand up, attempting to adjust to the darkness. Something echoes around me, and I identify the sound.

Is that _splashing_?

I break into a sprint toward the source of the noise, my boots carrying me clumsily to a tiny but flowing waterfall, hidden at the caves epicenter. Sunlight peeks through a vent in the ceiling, making the water sparkle and create peculiar reflections on the cave walls. A river must be connected to this somewhere. The sight of water has me nearly in tears of relief, but I suddenly realize, aghast...I don't have any iodine in my backpack. This water could be poisonous or untreated or impure and as much as I want to drink it―as much as I desperately _need_ to―I can't. I have nothing with me to nullify it yet. I swallow heavily, longingly, and redirect my gaze from the hypnotizing display to think.

Some tributes could have iodine that I could steal. I would, however, have to kill for it.

In another situation, I would pick differently. But this is the Hunger Games. It's me or them and I'm not in a generous mood, not in the arena.

The sunlight glints off the knife clipped to my belt and I've made my decision.

I slip outside and head to the woods on the right, continuing the curve I'd been taking earlier and set off to hunt.

* * *

><p>The afternoon is mild but I'm restless and tired as I navigate the jungle with wary eyes. I haven't seen a danger since the quicksand and most perils tend to sneak up on tributes when they least expect it. What will they send for me? Muttations? Jabberjays? The options are endless.<p>

I'm about to give up and seek sanctuary in a nearby tree when I hear a twig snap.

Something big's up ahead, I note. It's not good at being quiet―several more snaps reach my ears as I slink to the shadows. Whatever it is, I'm ready to kill it. Beast or tribute, I still have the advantage of surprise. I set down my pack carefully and unclip my weapon, ready to attack.

It's a boy, but that's all I can see from my position. He's taller than I am, but his identity is a mystery; all tributes are dressed the same. I can outrun him if he was to get the upper hand in a scuffle. I wait as he stops to rest, sipping water from a canteen. My eyes narrow. Good. I haven't picked a useless victim. He has what I need to survive and that's it. I move to get a better view of him, choosing the right moment to strike.

The boy leans over, cramming his water into his bag, but his head turns a fraction as he unzips it, allowing me to see his profile. I gasp.

_Finn!_

My smile stretches so wide, it hurts. He's really here. He's okay. I'm okay. I'm not alone. He isn't either. We can be allies, just like we promised.

Abandoning my plan to attack, I set my weapon near my pack and cup my hands, and call out, "_timber_!"

Finn's reaction is pure comedy and I can stifle laughter only by clapping a hand over my mouth. Finn actually stumbles_,_ eyes wild and looking terrified at the noise as he turns in circles, apparently not recognizing our code word to find each other in the arena.

I step out of my hiding place, amused.

"Quinn!" Finn yelps in delight, bounding over to yank me into a hug. I wrap my arms around his waist, holding on tight. The proof of his heartbeat, beating in his chest, showing that he is indeed safe is very soothing. We're on camera and acting too close for comfort, but I don't care. Finn and I are fine. We can make it and we can do it together. He pulls away and releases me, wearing his usual grin, just like at home.

"I was worried about you," I chide, punching his arm. Finn laughs, eyes twinkling.

"Me too. But then you weren't on the recap, so I knew you were all right."

Finn and I retrieve our bags, opting to camp up in the trees beside the caves. It grants us shelter and a bird's eye view on other tributes, along with a source of water to defend as our own. He's running low on his supply―two flagons of it―but insists we share. Fortunately, he has a whole bottle of iodine in his collection of Cornucopia spoils. I pace myself as best as I can, thirst quenched at last. We're both starving, though, so we split a package of crackers from his backpack and eat as we walk. He's pleased to learn that I found a boar, and for now, our problems are solved.

"Quicksand," he repeats, astonished. "Wow."

"Took me awhile to get out," I grumble, clambering up a tree and finding a place to settle on. Finn nods sympathetically, lapsing into his first day from his perch on a branch below me.

As I did, Finn managed to swim to the Cornucopia and escape, unharmed, and went the left woods from the valley where I'd gone right. He'd almost run into the Career pack on their overnight hunts but hid in a hollow of roots. He ticks off their names with his fingers. Sebastian and Sugar from 1. Jesse and Giselle from 2. Blaine and Sunshine from 4. The girls aren't too big but are spry and skilled with spears along with hand-to-hand combat. Sebastian is a swordsman. Jesse has a bow and a quiver of arrows. Blaine is a boxer. All and all, it's a well rounded and well stocked group of tributes.

I absorb the news in silence, legs dangling from my seat. Finn's twirling some wire that was in his pack, coiling it around his fingers.

"They didn't kill anyone last night, but they did get two people this morning," he informs me. "The girl from Nine and somebody else, I think."

"Did you spy on them?" I inquire, surprised to learn that Finn is this observant.

"A little," he admits. "I can't move around quietly, but I followed 'em as far as I could before they ran somewhere else. Didn't want to risk it."

"We must be north," I murmur, pulling out my compass.

The needle swivels, confirming my assumption. Finn and I went in two opposite paths in our flights from the bloodbath. The Cornucopia was the beginning of the circle, and we met at the end. The caves and the Cornucopia are directly across from each other, separated by miles of land.

"Anyway," Finn concludes, "I'm glad you found me."

"Me too," I agree, looking down at his face. I don't feel as lonely as I did before―Finn's presence eases the pain of missing home. The fact that we're old friends helps. If I had someone as my partner that I wasn't as comfortable with, I doubt that we'd be allies in the first place. Getting to know them would just make me sadder and I'd try to keep things as impersonal as possible to avoid the guilt of not working as a team.

"Let's hunt tomorrow," I proclaim as the sun is setting and darkness starting to blot out the light. "Those crackers weren't enough."

Not even close. We both need real food or we'll be out of the Games very soon.

"You just want the bacon," Finn jeers.

"Shut up."

His retort is muffled by the Capitol anthem and we stop talking, looking at the sky for the death recap. Finn's observation is right. After the girl from 6―the one who told Caesar in her interview about her love for dancing, I remember―it's the girl from 9. That makes nine tributes dead and fifteen of us left to play. The thought disturbs me. From what I can tell, these Games are uneventful. Nine gone in two days? Boring, _very_ boring. I'm sure that fresh evils await us in the days ahead. But I'm not alone or thirsty, which is a lot better than before.

The recap fades and the sky is dark again, save for the glittering stars.

"Night, Quinn."

"Night, Finn."

* * *

><p>Finn wakes me up in the morning and after I'm done packing up, we set off for the caves. It's not a long walk but we remain alert. By this time, other tributes have probably been able to find shelter in the vicinity and could be on us in a moment. There are only so many places to hide from the Careers before they sniff you out. In any case, the waterfall I found is difficult to spot from the outside, unless someone is looking for the crawlspace or the river it is connected to. Finn and I consider camping in there but decide against it. It's too confining and isn't protected enough.<p>

"So," he says as we wait for our water to be treated, "where are the boars?"

"The one I saw was on the east side of the arena," I answer. "Chances are someone else got it, but there has to be more close by."

"I'll kill it," Finn proclaims, voice echoing a little. "You can be the distraction."

"The distraction?" I repeat warily.

"Yeah. All you have to do is get it to chase you, and I'll get it with my spear," he explains with boyish enthusiasm.

It's not the _brightest_ idea, but it'll have to do. The boar will keep us fed for days, and the thought stirs me into agreement. Once we've had a few gulps each and several more moments of rest and planning, we march outside. Finn follows my lead and I look for my path back to where I hid from the boar, listening for movement. The jungle's too quiet, but I suspect Finn and I are just lucky. Our time of trouble is coming, and soon.

We're on the move for twenty minutes and it's a relief to not hear Finn trudging about loudly; he's copying my actions and climbing over roots.

Finn bumps into my back when I stop short, but his question dies on his lips after I shoot him a look―something's heading our way. I jerk my head and he obediently rushes into a clump of thickets to ambush our meal from the left. I'll stand down this boar, somehow. I tighten my grip on the knife, anxious. What if I get sliced to pieces by its tusks? Those things aren't big but they are strong. I lick my lips, fidgeting slightly.

Shouldn't it be here by now? I hear its hooves and its voice...wait.

Voice?

Not one, but a few, arguing with each other and nearing with each passing second. _Boars don't speak_, I think stupidly. My eyes widen in recognition. Finn hisses my name, frantic, and I sprint to his hiding spot, terrified that my heart will burst out of my chest. Finn pulls me close and we stand, squashed together in a hedge of tall fronds, not daring to breathe just as the Careers themselves approach where I had been standing not a minute ago. Luckily I have my backpack, because if I'd left it...well, it's not hard to imagine what could be happening right now.

"Shut _up_, Sugar," the boy from 4 grumbles, sharing a scowl with his district partner, a little girl. I remember her from training. She seems oddly small for a Career. I wonder why she's made it this far if she's so vulnerable, but then I realize she was drowning tributes during the bloodbath.

"Don't talk to me like that," Sugar snaps. "It was only a suggestion."

"A stupid one," the girl from 4 pipes up. Sugar glares at her.

"Ladies," the boy from 1 interjects. His smile is lazy, but it accentuates his face. Sebastian. That's his name. He was full of charm with Caesar.

Finn and I are still as statues as the Careers take a break from hunting, speaking in low tones. I study them carefully, committing their traits to memory. Sebastian has the sword. Jesse...ah, there he is. He's furthest away, toying with his bowstring like a musician would a harp. He must be a good shot. Blaine...the boxer. As for the girls―Giselle, Sugar, and Sunshine (oh, the irony, I sneer)―Finn said they were competent fighters.

The blatant inferiority of everyone else in the Games is so _obvious_. These tributes will conquer us all without breaking a sweat, and they know it.

I wonder how exciting this scene must be to the viewers. Finn and I, a hairsbreadth from the arena's mightiest tributes. Inches from death.

I don't want anyone from home to see us. How distressed they must be. My mother and Carole are probably hysterical. I can imagine my father's empty eyes, staring hard at the television as if he could leap into the arena and rescue me, like he used to protect me when I had bad dreams. I can picture Charlotte and John, holding my nephews in their arms for dear life and keeping their emotions in check in fear of upsetting my mother more. Puck might be swearing. Brittany will undoubtedly be crying. Santana's icy, iron composure will break for her sake and for mine. Rachel...I can see her horrified, unblinking gaze glued to the screen. My heart aches. This shouldn't be the end. Not so quickly. It's not fair.

Will the Gamemakers draw us out? Could they be that cruel and tip the scales even further in the Careers' favor by revealing our position?

Finn's heartbeat against my shoulders is the only indication that he is as scared as I am. Otherwise, we are mute spectators avoiding detection.

"What's that?" Giselle asks suddenly.

_Oh no._

My teeth set on edge. Finn stops breathing.

"What?" Sebastian prompts, looking for all the world like he's holding court from his seat on a log. Are _all_ Careers this arrogant?

"That," Giselle repeats, pointing to something. I bite my tongue. Blood seeps into my mouth. My muscles coil in dread. Finn's grip tightens.

Then, there is a silence so long that I start to wonder if they're just toying with us. Do they know we're here? Do they even consider us a threat?

"Oh," Blaine says with a shrug. "That's just an avocado. We have those back home."

_Huh?_

Sebastian leans away from where he'd been standing―two feet from Finn and I―holding up something round for the others to see. It's a faint greenish color and fits into Sebastian's palm. Blaine's familiar with it...so it must be grown in 4. That's why I don't recognize it. It's not native to my side of Panem and we only import the basic fruits (apples, oranges, bananas...). I don't think we'd get any avocados unless it was Parcel Day.

_A fruit_, I realize. They haven't seen us. We're still obscured from them, at least for the moment. I relax my grip on my knife.

"Think it's safe to eat?" Jesse queries curiously. Blaine nods.

"I don't see why―"

"Can we go now?" Sugar cuts in, impatient. "We should keep looking."

She's not reproached for the interruption. The others murmur agreement, resuming into their competitive attitude. It's fascinating in a morbid sort of way. They look forward to the Games, for the opportunity to win. If they don't, they're honored like the heroes Capitol insists they are.

The group vanishes in a rush of thundering feet, the sound fading from hearing range. Finn and I wait until we're sure it's okay before we exhale, still cautious. I step out of the hedge and pause, feeling weak and jittery with relief. _That was the very definition of close call_, I think darkly.

I turn to Finn and find him chewing on the abandoned avocado, having since peeled it open and liking the taste. He shoots me a goofy look.

"Want some?" He asks innocently.

I burst into laughter, and slap a hand to my mouth to cover the noise, feeling less edgy already. Like I said, I can always count on Finn for a joke.

"What?" Finn grins. "It's really good..."

I snicker and hold out my hand. He's right. It's not bad. It'll hold us until we get a boar but I'm starting to think the Careers scared them away.

We stay on this path, reluctant to return to where we came and foolishly follow the Careers. I don't think they'll find our water supply, so I don't worry about it. They don't look like the type to stay in one place for long. Chances are, they'll blow right past it and keep moving in a circle around the island. Reminded unpleasantly of the gray beast from the sea, I shake my head and continue walking, swatting insects near my face.

Our trek doesn't give us a boar but I manage to kill a fox―both of us―before it can make time to escape. It's late afternoon, so we risk making a fire as Finn skins the animal, holding it over the coals until I deem it appropriate to stop. There isn't time to dawdle, anyway. The smoke's rising and we need to make camp somewhere safe. Handing me my share, Finn and I stow our portions inside our packs as rations. There's enough meat left to satisfy us so we just eat as we walk. I find us a decent tree and we settle in, like before, with me on a higher branch and Finn on a lower one. We've been picking high trees on purpose, because by the time a capable climber can reach our hideout, we'd be ready for them.

The afternoon winds down to evening, and throughly sleepy, I use a nearby branch as a headrest.

Finn and I don't feel the need to talk and simply sit and relax. The sky is beginning to eclipse the sun when I hear cannon fire in the distance.

"Huh," Finn murmurs, almost to himself.

"Fourteen left in the Games," I mumble. "Not bad odds."

"The odds are always bad," Finn remarks dryly. "Anyone who doesn't believe that is dead for sure."

I don't bother answering. He's right.

The anthem appears, and after the recap with only one death shown in the sky, I stay awake for awhile. Finn, thankfully, doesn't snore, so it's quiet spare for the occasional cricket chirp or bird cry. I lean my head back against our tree, thinking. Our escape from the Careers was extraordinarily lucky and I'm sure we won't be given the same 'gift' from the Gamemakers again. Finn and I need to learn how to be better than them. Better at _everything_ in order to best the Careers. We can't be found―I promised Rachel and if it isn't me who lives, I want it to be Finn.

Is it possible to beat the Career pack? No, not alone. Not with two people, either. Not unless you're twice as smart as the pack and a fast runner.

The thought pulls me up short and I pause, considering it. Twice as smart. Twice as _smart_...

The word sends my mind into a vision of a mouse sneaking around a trap, deliberating on how to steal a piece of food without being caught.

That's it. That's it! To beat the Careers, we need to set up a trap. A big one. One that can get all of them, one by one...

Hoping the cameras interpret my devious grin as something worth sponsoring me for, I go to sleep with ideas rocketing around in my head.

* * *

><p>A parachute descends from the heavens just as my eyes open in the morning, and I snatch it out of the air, ripping open the box. I smile all the way to my ears, delighted. It's stocked with food but it's things I know we both like. Biscuits, one loaf of bread, two apples, and a tureen of soup. This'll make a good breakfast. I call Finn's name, and he almost tumbles off his branch. Once he's fully awake, I show him our prize and he grins.<p>

"That _has_ to be from home," Finn declares. "They know what we like eating."

"Guessing these apples were from your mother," I say slyly. He snickers.

"Probably. Thanks, Mom," he adds to nowhere in particular, but they'll show it and Carole will see it eventually.

Like before, we organize our spoils. We split the bread and eat the remaining fox rations, leaving the rest for dinner. We're both low on water, so we plan to traipse to the caves. By unspoken agreement, I know we'll both 'get rid of' whatever's there, if anything is. We're doing fine as a team, so no one will take our supplies away. Finn's not stupid―he knows as well as I do that one less tribute in the way is one closer step to victory.

I enlighten him on the strategy I came up with last night and he nods, but looks a little unsure.

"What?" I prod, shooting him a glance over my shoulder. "It can work."

"It could. But I don't think it's that...safe," he hedges, not meeting my eyes. "Isn't it better just to hide?"

"Until they get everyone else and then come to find us? Not really."

Finn sighs.

"Okay," he relents. "What is it?"

By this time, we reach the caves and huddle inside, wary of eavesdroppers. As soon as we can leave, we will. It's too dangerous not to.

I find a stick from near the entrance, tapping it on the cave floor to make a point as Finn carefully adds the appropriate amount of iodine drops.

The plan is simple but effective. Separate the pack. Sugar and Sunshine are my initial targets because of their small statures, but anyone will do. I explain that the group will be be less strong as their numbers deplete, and the goal is to get them far enough away from each other so any aid will arrive too late. All we need to do is lure an unwitting tribute into a snare and...well, get rid of them. It's not ingenious, nor is it particularly creative, but what else can I do in the arena? There's nothing to work with, unless you count pushing someone off a cliff and hoping for the best.

Remembering my adeptness in training with snares, Finn starts warming up to the idea.

"But how to get them..._oh_," Finn trails off, expression approving. "That way."

I nod. I don't say it, but he knows exactly what I mean: mimicry. The talent I didn't tell Caesar of. Maybe it will be of some use in the Games.

"Backup plan is just them chasing us to the spot," I admit with a shrug. "But this isn't foolproof. It could go wrong."

"It could," Finn muses, thoughtful. "It has potential, though..."

He hands me my canteen of purified water and we take sips in silence, the dangers of my scheme weighing on us like a storm on a cloudy day.

"I know it's all we have," he goes on, capping his canteen and returning it to his bag. "But I like it. It's a challenge."

And a distraction from the inevitable, but neither of us mentions that.

"And knock off a few tributes, hopefully," I add. Finn nods, regarding me.

"We'll need camouflage," he warns. "You standing around in the open could seriously hurt you."

That's true. I hadn't even considered that. If camouflaged, I can not only keep myself safe but mess with the Careers' heads.

"Who should I...?"

Finn shrugs. "Whoever. I believe in you."

"Thanks," I say, relieved. Finn cracks a smile.

"No problem. Come on, we should go look for some places to set it up."

* * *

><p>Finn's idea of camouflage is rubbing mud all over ourselves and as repellent as it is, I agree without complaint. We need to be hiding somewhere indistinct if I want this plan to succeed. He makes it funny and flashes a toothy grin at me, teeth bright white underneath the layer of muck on his face. I shake my head, smiling, and we finish mapping out our scheme in hushed voices. Tracking the Careers is obviously an impossible task. They could be anywhere in the arena and we'd get caught looking for them. Instead, we decide to stick to the south, closer to the Cornucopia. That's where they've most likely made their permanent camp, and nobody is stupid enough to steal their things, at a risk of retaliation.<p>

To my amusement, Finn fashions two headdresses made out of bird feathers and we indulge in a childish display of whooping like ancient warriors, rubbing the mud so it resembles war paint. I hope it appeals us to the viewers. One gift from home will not keep us fed for long.

I surmise that the Careers make daily loops around the island in search of victims, but since we still have thirteen tributes left in the running, the hunts are becoming more extensive. It's a good thing Finn and I are constantly on the move, too, because I don't want to be attacked unawares.

We make camp in a tree after about three hours of hiking across the arena to our designated area and set up two twitch up snares.

I disguise both as clusters of leaves, counting on the fact that these Careers are good trackers. If my plan goes smoothly, a solitary member will find one, and when they do, I'll lure him or her to the second trap by mimicry. Finn is the backup plan and will hide, in case they aren't fooled by the second snare. It's risky. I know. I understand that this pack may decide to stick together, but it's worth a shot. We have to try something.

The audience must be wondering what I've been planning to do, along with the Gamemakers. Snares and sneaking around isn't that original but this idea is. I think they're insistent that I try it out soon and their curiosity―well, the need of Capitol to keep the Games interesting―has to be insatiable, because after a day and a half of waiting in this spot, watching our food supply dwindle down, we get something. A big something.

A thunderstorm. One so cataclysmic, it makes the trees shudder and groan as thunder rumbles ominously above us. I swear I see hail and I'm positive hear a cannon shot, but it's useless to try and discern it from the thunder's booming. Rain, unfortunately, ruins our grand disguises of mud, but the darkness of the afternoon shields us from view. Squinting through the downpour as my teeth chatter, I keep watch for our targets.

It's nearing evening when, at last, I see someone heading right for our second trap. I guess it's just our luck that this would happen, but the rain is making the forest floor a swamp and the victim won't notice a thing. Blaine is alone and sulky. He must be the scout sent ahead to defend any potential attacks from the others. Must be an awful job, but I don't have any sympathy for him. It's him or us and I will always pick the latter.

I know there isn't time to waste, and I nudge Finn, who nods at me through the torrential shower, a grimace on his face, and grips his spear.

I clear my throat, nervously, and cup my hands around my mouth, concentrating on making my pitch higher and shriller than normal.

"_Blaine_!"

Blaine stops short and looks around, confused, peering in all directions. Thunder crashes again and he shrugs, not trusting his own ears.

I do it again, louder this time, and Finn gives me a thumbs up. My goal to sound like Sunshine is working. Blaine freezes up and walks in a circle.

"Sunshine?" He calls uneasily. "Sunshine, is that you?"

He must think the others have turned on her. Without him, she's surrounded by four strong tributes without the protection of a district partner.

Desperate, he starts heading back to where he came, but pauses, inches from the snare. Finn gestures for me to continue.

Hoping my voice is thrown by the wind so I don't accidentally reveal myself, I inhale a breath and shriek, "Blaine, help me! Please!"

And that's it.

I watch like it's in slow motion, morbidly entranced. Blaine goes to lean forward, as if he'll start sprinting in a race, but his foot lands directly in the snare. In seconds, the wire, disturbed by the moment, twitches and cinches around his ankle, knocking him flat on his back before his foot is pulled into the air, taking Blaine with it. I step out of my hiding spot as Blaine bobs up and down like a cork, suspended in the air by his ankle.

"Shit," he growls, hands scrabbling to find purchase on his trousers, pulling out a concealed knife. He'll cut himself free if I let him.

_I'll have to start all over if he does_, I realize. This is it. _The_ moment. The moment where I _really_ participate in the Hunger Games.

Apprehension and repugnance condense in my stomach but I force it down and grind my teeth. I can't get squeamish anymore.

Blaine's swinging a little but manages to see me approaching and recognizes the nature of his predicament. Frantic, he struggles to escape but it's no use. His allies are too far away to assist him and I swear I can see his pupils dilate in pure terror when I level the knife across his throat and drag it sideways, lead weight dropping to my stomach at the distinct squelching noise I hear over the sound of the continuous storm above us. A peculiar haze is draping itself over my eyes, making my action look like it wasn't enough and I wonder if I should do more. I know soon I've got the jugular but Blaine's still squirming, hands flapping about in an attempt to staunch the blood flow. I don't know how long I stand there, watching him bizarrely choke to death on his own blood before Finn seizes my arm and marches me back to our hideout, shooting me a weird look but doesn't say a word. My head is buzzing and I wipe my cheek with my hand, observing a mixture of blood, water, and mud on my palm.

Why was that so _easy_? It wasn't even a strain―it was easier than sawing wood. I didn't even break a sweat.

Blaine's cannon fires.

The Careers will be coming this way any minute and encountering Blaine will be a shock. In the patch of tall thickets where we sit, shivering in the rain, I draw my legs to my chest, resting my chin on my knees. I shouldn't expose my feelings like this, appearing as a tribute that regrets her actions, but how can I _not_? Blaine is dead. I killed him. _I killed him._ I slit his throat to save myself. I consider the words over and over in my head, but they don't seem real until Sunshine's howl of pure fury pierces the air and makes my skin crawl and my stomach to twist into tight knots.

"Blaine!" She screams, as she and the remaining Careers stare at the scene; Blaine, dangling grotesquely from a trap with blood dripping from his throat to his forehead. Sunshine's too short to cut him down, so Sebastian stands on tiptoe and slashes fast at the wire, and the body falls to the ground in an ungainly heap. I can hear Sunshine's weeping over the rain and I purse my lips, stopping the tears before they show on my face.

_I did that. I did that. I did that._

The worst part is knowing my conscious was elsewhere. My mind felt empty when I killed Blaine. Careless, robotic, mechanical. Not human.

The others give her about thirty seconds of privacy before mumbling something incomprehensible, indicating it was time to leave. Distraught, Sunshine presses her fingers over Blaine's eyelids, closing them gently. It's all she can do in lieu of no proper burial and the pack―along with Finn and I―watches in silence as the hovercraft descends from the heavens, lifts the corpse into its metal claw, and vanishes from sight.

It's the first time I've seen the hovercraft since I've entered the arena. How I wish I could go with it, leaving the Games' horrors behind...

The Careers don't stop to rest and keep moving on their loop, a sniffling Sunshine at the back. Finn and I stay for a half an hour, just to be safe.

"Quinn?"

"What?" I ask, feeling suddenly tired. Finn rubs his neck awkwardly.

"Are you okay?" He queries, eyes probing my face, looking for something. What is it? Compassion? Sadness? I don't have the slightest idea.

"Yeah."

He doesn't believe me, but simply nods and steps out of the thickets as the rain finally stops, allowing us to see the clear night sky. The Gamemakers got what they wanted. Another death and yet another tribute succumbing to the pressure of survival, complete with a clever plan to achieve it. I'm sure I'm the talk of Capitol right now. A contender. Not a tribute to be brushed off anymore, no...one with intelligence and spirit and a strategical mind. I don't have any of those things, but if the sponsors want to send something, why not?

"Time to go," Finn reminds me, softly. I nod, retrieving my backpack, and for once, let Finn lead the way.

The Career pack is weakened and there's one less tribute in the arena. My plan worked, just like I wanted it to, but why does it feel like _I_ lost?

* * *

><p>The anthem shows two deaths, including Blaine's. Twelve left. Twelve gone. We're decreasing steadily, but not in an exciting way.<p>

The Gamemakers will fix that. How is the question, but I don't bother dwelling on it. It's a waste of time to ponder about a Gamemaker's cruelty.

Tuning out the nasty voice in my head that points out my own cruelty displayed today, I close my eyes.

* * *

><p>I sleep fitfully, drifting between dreams of falling from a tree to being strangled by Sunshine with her bare hands and wake up with the urge to vomit. I chew on a waterlogged biscuit for breakfast to distract myself, staring into the maze of trees. What do we do now? The scheme undoubtedly has the Careers on edge and on the hunt, knowing they are not the only predators in the jungle anymore. But how to stop them again? They'll never risk separation. They know better now. They'll stick together and step warily, as their invincibility been revealed to be false. Where does this place Finn and I? Shall we just keep ourselves hidden, or go for a second plan? The first one is blown. I lost that piece of wire.<p>

I don't want to do either one. I want to go back to 7 and hide under my bedcovers and pretend that this was all just a horrible nightmare.

What would everyone think of me? Would they see me as Capitol does, a brave tribute fighting to win, or a murderer, searching for a new victim?

Disheartened, I shake my head, heeding Finn's advice from training. I can't think of home. It makes the Games worse than they already are.

"We should get more water," Finn says, startling me. I agree and climb down, branch by branch, passing his level and landing on the ground on the balls of my feet. The sun is warm and plentiful today, and I'm relieved for it. The endless rain was uncomfortable. I relish in the weather change, now used to the climate. I expect a thunderstorm will happen again, but with yesterday's 'excitement', it might not be for some time.

"So..." Finn murmurs pointedly as we walk north on a trek to the caves after a resolution to wash ourselves there, too, "how are you?"

Something in his tone makes my skin itch. "Fine."

Finn picks up on my reluctance to talk and prattles about something else, wondering if we should try exploring the island or set up a new trap. I vote for the first and he nods, looking relieved. He talks of our hunting skills and I let his voice fade to a hum, examining his profile. I wonder what he thinks of me. I'm not the same Quinn he's always known. I've done an awful deed and his respect for me must've waned considerably.

Cold terror seeps into my brain when I start to wonder if Finn sees me as a monster.

_I'm still you're best friend, _I beseech silently. _I'm still Quinn, but just...changed._

I don't notice until now how much Blaine's..._murder_ sticks. I assumed―stupidly―I could sleep off my discomfort and remorse and be okay, but I just can't. It happened just yesterday but I can't shake the vivid memories...his blank eyes staring ahead, blood and water mixing together as the sky exploded with noise, Sunshine's screams that weren't acted...I don't know what to do about it. Observing the Games and being in them couldn't be any different. I never took the time to study how tributes dealt with deaths, aside from the ones that go mad with fear or grief.

_Will I go mad?_

_Will I? How will I know? Does killing someone for self-preservation make you go crazy?_

Rattled at the thought, I flinch, but Finn doesn't catch it. He's rambling about catching more boars and eventually, I manage to tune back in.

"...should be easier this time," he muses, stepping over a puddle of mud, frowning a little. "Or we could find some more fruit."

"Fruit sounds like a great idea," I acquiesce, softly, and he sidles a radiant smile at me. He seems pleased that I've 'recovered' but the implication hurts. He doesn't understand what I'm dealing with. He doesn't know how much I can feel myself wrestling with a deadweight of shame. He and I are so different now. He hasn't been the direct cause of a death. Two, actually. That boy from District 3 was definitely killed because of me.

Suddenly, I realize don't want Finn to go through this. I don't want Finn to crumble, like I did, under the arena induced stress in order to live.

How can I protect him from this fate in an environment that _forces _you to do the opposite?

"Home sweet home," Finn says with a huff as we crawl into the caves, and takes it upon himself to fill our water canteens.

I watch him as he's distracted with his task and silently plead to whatever entity resides in this world that Finn doesn't get corrupted like I am.

* * *

><p>Five days.<p>

That's how long I've been locked up in here. It seems much longer, though, and the time blurring together. Finn and I set up something of a routine. Wake up, pack up, hunt, get water, find a place to camp, sleep, and repeat. There isn't much else to do, really. Three more tributes die over the course of two days―Giselle (strangely), the girl from 3, and the boy from 11―and I'd bet all of Capitol's income that each death was more gruesome than the last. Otherwise, the Gamemakers would be instigating perils left and right, had their audience been at all unsatisfied.

Giselle's fate is a mystery and very frustrating. Blaine's death was deliberate and planned, but hers? I have no way of knowing what happened and I can't stop questioning it. Did somebody in the pack turn on her? Has the Career alliance broken apart yet? Did she get randomly attacked by a mutt? I guess I'll never know, unless I win, which is extremely unlikely.

When I count up my tenure to seven days in the Games, I'm quietly surprised. Seven days ago, I had daily showers, food that didn't require a lot of effort to get, a comfy bed (one that didn't give me backaches or insect bites or the chance of falling out of it), and an ignorance that I wish I still had. The ignorance being freedom from the grim part of my mind that surfaced since Blaine's demise, one that makes me sick with regret.

Finn doesn't push me into talk, but does stare at me when he believes I'm not looking. I'd ask what he's thinking but he'd probably lie about it.

We sit near the water today on the east side of the island, tossing rocks into the ocean. I keep watch on the treeline, though, just in case.

"An orchard," Finn hums, chucking a rock so it skips over a wave before sinking into the sea. "So I can have a ton of food in my backyard."

"They wouldn't allow that," I reason, indicating Snow's regime and rules without mentioning them aloud. "Seven doesn't grow any food."

"Yeah, but it's nice to dream, right?"

We're sharing what exactly we'd do with our winning money from Capitol to pass the time and Finn just wants food and basic, material things.

"Or one of those music players," he says, eyes alight with excitement. "The kind that fits in your hand."

"You would be able to afford it," I concede thoughtfully, nibbling on a slice of avocado. Finn's oddly skilled at finding them, especially since I refused point blank to eat insects unless I was starving and unable to hunt for something substantial. "All that money...you could buy anything."

"What would you get?" Finn asks, realizing I had yet to offer something that I would want.

I consider it, pursing my lips. What do I want? I have everything I need at home, really. A bed, clothes, a roof over my head, a family, friends...

An indulgence that seems out of reach pops into my head.

"My own kitchen," I admit. "Then I could learn to make things that are actually edible."

I can almost hear my mother's laughter. Her attempts to teach me are pointless; I fail each time and my father bravely consumes the results.

"You'll be able to have everyone over to have dinner with you," Finn laughs, eyes twinkling in delight.

I smile a little, sharing his enthusiasm. I could do that. Invite friends over to eat. Puck, Santana, Brittany, Rachel and Finn could all..._no_, no they couldn't. Finn and I can't return to our district together. He can't be on the list. It's one of us or none at all. I bite my tongue, refusing to let my bad humor show on my face and ruin our good day. The dejected feeling rests uncomfortably in my chest so I grab a rock and sling it sideways, watching it jump twice before vanishing beneath the water. Finn claps mockingly and I swat at his shoulder with my hand, making a face.

How can he do that? Act so..._cavalier_ about the Games? We could both die at any time but Finn remains cheerful about our prospects.

His optimism is pleasant but it does nothing to help me. I often find myself sinking, much like the rock did, into a cold, unforgiving place, usually when I am about to go to sleep. Has Blaine's death changed me so much? That I can't muster the energy to be confident about my survival? That I shiver in this unrelenting darkness while Finn stays afloat in a sea of unawareness, never to understand the depths of killing someone so brutally? I don't know what to do about it. I can't channel this sadness into something; I'm in the arena. I need to concentrate on living.

"Who's left?" Finn queries, squinting at me in the sun.

"Sebastian and Sugar from One. Jesse from Two. Sunshine from Four. The guy from Six. Us...the girl from Eight. And the girl from Ten."

"Hmm," he murmurs. I raise an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Going fast," he offers, eyebrows knitting together. I see his point―the noose of safety is tightening. Sooner or later, we'll be forced into the fray.

Hiding can only be useful for so long.

Because Finn and I are not only allies but ones that come from the same district, I'm assuming that they'll interview our shared group of friends and family together and then broadcast it to Panem soon, when one more person has been eliminated. I wonder what everyone'll say about me, considering that I've just murdered someone only a couple of days ago. Granted this has happened in each and every Games and shouldn't be a surprise, I still feel terrible about it. Who _wouldn't_?

Hoping that we haven't gotten sunburns, I shepherd Finn back into the woods and start walking.

Our route to a new campsite shows nothing amiss in the forest nor any adversaries. Aside from a strange rumbling in the distance, sounding to come from the very west side of the island and quite a ways from us, it's quiet and peaceful on our trek. Good. I like the change.

I scale a tree and climb until I find a fork that satisfies me and settle in, securing myself with my belt. Finn and I have made a habit of turning in early, more out of boredom than self preservation. I gulp down cups of water, watching the sun descending on an orange horizon.

The sky goes dark but the recap succeeding the anthem shows no deaths. Perhaps these remaining tributes have enough sense to evade danger.

Fatigued from the day's heatwave, I let my head loll sideways and feel my eyes close, embracing the oblivion of sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** The Girl with the Ax

**Author:** animatedbrowneyes

**Section:** (3/5)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters within the Hunger Games or Glee; I just borrow them.

There's a lot of death in this one, so...be prepared. Thanks for reading!

* * *

><p>Rachel visits my dreams, smiling prettily and laughing as we meander about in a grassy field, one that I know well―the schoolyard. Her words are muted and incomprehensible but I don't care; the pleasure of seeing her is enough. Enchanted, I reach out to grasp her hand, to cradle her chin, but she steps out of reach, shaking her head. <em>No, no<em>, she seems to be saying. _Not right now._ Slightly disappointed, I frown, and she smiles again.

Her mouth opens to speak but instead of the indistinct, gentle murmur I'm anticipating, I receive something very different.

She's screaming.

Reflexively, my eyes widen in horror and the shock of it wakes me up, forcing me back into the present, the arena. The Games. Not home.

What time is it? All I see of the heavens is a pale, misty blue. It must be early in the morning, at least.

The noise continues but it's not like Rachel's sharp, almost shrill tones―it's low, gravelly, and the harshness informs me that the sufferer is male.

Feeling my stomach coiling with fear at the closeness of the attack, I automatically look down at Finn and gasp. He's not there.

_Finn? Finn? Finn, where are you?_

I panic and just _know_, deep in my heart, that the attack has to be on my best friend. There is no coincidence. Terrified, I scramble into action and grab my knife, nearly falling out of the tree. Hysteria elevating, I sprint in the general direction of the commotion, not bothering to care for the ruckus I'm making. I'll find the trouble quickly. I run hard, pushing myself to go faster and faster. Cries of agony permeate my ears and I grind my teeth, forcing my pace to quicken. _He's near the caves_, I realize. _This is why he's so far away―the caves are a long walk from the campsite._

My feet can only carry me so fast and I breathe hard through my nose, listening for further indication as to where to go. Finn yells again and I just about fly towards the site, desperation clouding my senses. Why did Finn leave our tree? And in the middle of the night? Alone? I can't fathom his decision and disregard it for the moment, running and running until my foot catches on a root and I tumble face first in a pit of earth.

"Fuck," I cough as I sit up on my knees, face red with rage. A trap! Finn's in trouble and I didn't watch my feet again, like with that quicksand.

The pit's about eight feet deep and I look for a way out, mind in a frenzy. There are no rocks to use as a makeshift ladder and I can't hoist myself up, it's too high. Scrabbling to find an escape at Finn's newest yelp of pain, I look around for my knife and find it on the ground in front of me, blade half-buried in soil. I yank it out, and with no other option, embed it in the wall of densely packed earth. Standing on tiptoe, I dig my fingernails into the wall, pulling out chunks of dirt again and again until I make a stable handhold for myself. Now standing tall with one arm wedged into the hollow and the other gripping my knife, I kick my boots at the earthen wall until a half-decent hole is created for a step. Chest pressed awkwardly against the pit's wall, I pull the knife out of its cavity and raise my body a little, forcing the knife into a new schism of dirt.

_Hurry, hurry,_ my mind whispers. _Finn's in danger. Finn's in danger._

With each stretching movement and replacement of the knife, I'm able to climb out of the trap, inch by inch, after ten minutes of effort, hands now coated with grime. It doesn't matter, because I've lost so much valuable time―Finn's time―and I can't waste more of it. I continue doggedly toward Finn and pick up the pace as best I can, fear and agitation returning anew. He's still making noise and the Careers are almost barking with loud laughter, like hyenas. When I finally reach the clearing, I almost vomit. Their backs are to me but Finn is facing me, sprawled on his back, body drenched with blood. His eyes widen as Sugar makes a cut with at his arm, but Finn's looking right at me, panic reflected in his expression.

He doesn't call for me.

He doesn't ask for help.

He just lolls his head back, as if looking at someone else across the way upside down, and bellows, "Quinn, run!"

_What?_

The Careers' heads snap up robotically, cackles fading as they finally cease their attack. They exchange malevolent looks, egging each other on and get up to sprint past Finn, starting a new hunt, backpacks on their shoulders and weapons ready. _He's tricked them_, I realize, dumbstruck. He's tricked them into a useless chase, running in the opposite direction instead of coming to get me. They're gone, though, and that's all that matters.

I rush to his side without waiting a second longer and assess his injuries, filthy hands fluttering about helplessly near his chest. I swallow hard at the sight of it all, heart climbing into my throat as disgust swirls around in my stomach. They've completely _destroyed_ Finn. He's been stabbed, kicked, punched, and now lies, bloodied and bruised, shaking like a leaf on the ground as he looks up at me with only one brown eye open. The other's been beaten in and the skin around it is a nasty shade of purple. Exhaling noisily in shock and distress, I tear at his shirt, appraising his wounds and know, beyond a shadow of doubt, that there isn't a thing I can do. The blows have punctured something internally and no amount of bandages―the ones currently left behind in my backpack, so far away right now at our campsite―can fix him. His breathing is so labored, I can hear the unpleasant wheezes emanating from his throat. Hands trembling violently as his hand finds mine, a choking noise escapes my mouth.

"I'm sorry," Finn rasps. "I ran out of water last night and went to get more and got so lost...I didn't have a torch and then they found me."

"It's okay," I croak, eyes starting to burn at his crippled figure. I can't save him. I can't. I can't. Finn will be gone in a matter of minutes.

I stroke his forehead with my fingers. Lay his head in my lap. Forget about keeping my composure―it's impossible to even do that anymore.

Time seems to slow down. Things take longer to process. I try to understand what's happening. Finn will die and I'll never speak to him again.

Finn coughs, body briefly plagued with horrible spasms as tears leak from his eyes, unable to be contained. I make soothing noises, throat tight.

There's nothing to say. Nothing to do. Only wait for the end. His life is deteriorating and yet, I can't verbalize a thought of comfort. All I know is that my best friend, one I've known for my entire life, is being ripped away from me by a barbaric system and a cluster of bloodthirsty kids.

"I'm sorry," I choke, letting out a shuddering breath. "I'm sorry I couldn't reach you in time. There was a stupid trap and I _heard_ you but I―"

"Better me than you," Finn interrupts, voice soft. I shake my head harshly. He's wrong. It should be him who lives.

"No."

Finn blinks, resigned, not fighting me on it. I graze my fingers over his cheek, cradling it in my hand. Finn turns into my touch, looking sadder than before.

"I wish things were different," he says sorrowfully, like he's sharing a secret with me. "With us..."

"Me too," I get out, casting a despairing glance at the surrounding forest as the sun as it rises higher into the sky. "I wish we never got reaped."

I wish I could reverse time, sending us back to Reaping Day, where we sat in my backyard, looking at the clouds and pointing out shapes.

Safe from the Games and safe from this agony.

Free of the paranoia of being housed in the arena and elusion from the horrors here in a place built to punish.

Finn makes a disagreeable sound.

"Not that," he mumbles, before he shivers hard, a pained look on his face. "No, I meant...what I meant was...with you and me."

"How?" I ask, feeling his fingers clench around mine, desperately, like he's willing me to understand. And I do. Slowly, but I do. Then I whisper.

"_Oh_."

Finn nods, squeezing his unbruised eye shut before looking up at me again, anguish in his gaze so potent, I want to scream.

"You never thought..."

"No," I admit weakly, somehow wishing I had. For what reason, I don't know...maybe to ease his last few minutes. I haven't ever thought of Finn that way, and I won't, because he's dying and I'm not...there's Rachel to consider. He isn't in the same category as she is and it breaks my heart because Finn, loyal and funny Finn, always there for me and always aimed to please me, can never find someone to see him in the same light.

"It's okay," he grinds out quietly, seized with a round of coughing again, blood seeping past his lips this time. "I know about...you know. I know_._"

I stare and he looks back and in the silence I realize that he is aware of my kiss with Rachel, the night before we were selected as tributes.

"Told me," he elaborates with sad humor, choosing his words carefully. We're still on camera. "Jealous of me," he adds hoarsely. "Me too."

I infer that he is jealous of Rachel. How had I not seen it before? Finn nudging me on the Reaping Day to pay attention, but I had been smiling at Rachel at that moment. His warnings not to think of Rachel. Sure, it was for my sake, but maybe he's had a green-eyed monster for quite some time. Probably ever since Rachel and I got closer, our feelings undefined but on the surface. Someone watching could see it, I have no doubt.

"I never knew," I reiterate unhappily, grasping his hand close to my chest in a strained, crushed apology. "I'm _so_ sorry, Finn..."

"You never wondered...wondered, about me," he slurs, noticeably disoriented, as if his body is remembering that it is declining rapidly and needs to catch up, "we were six and Puck...he kissed you...got _so_ mad at you for a week...I always liked...did you ever see...?"

"I remember," I concede thickly, feeling tears spilling down on my cheeks. "I do."

Finn nods vaguely, peering up with hazy eyes. "You need to win," he says with sudden vigor, sounding like it's an effort to speak. "You need to."

"I will," I vow brokenly, frantically, "I will. I swear."

The sentiment is so familiar to what I said to Rachel, the weight of the situation threatens to crush me. But I hold. I need to be here for Finn.

Somehow, it feels like he's being here for me. Like I'm the one who's hurt. As if he knows this is destroying me from the inside out.

Finn's smile is fleeting and sincere, but he struggles to vocalize his next statement.

"H-here," he rasps, the fingers encased in my hands beginning to wiggle slightly. I look down, confused, and he wiggles them again. "Take t-this."

"Your token?" I ask, lost. "Why?"

"Keep it," he breathes. "Keep it and give it back to Mom, please...my dad's ring, take it back..."

I nod, tears blurring my vision and obscuring his form until I wipe my eyes with the heel of my free hand. "I will."

Carole could get it earlier when they bring Finn back, but I think he means _take it with you when you win_ and not an alternative ending for me.

"Win, Quinn," he mumbles with some affection, unhurt eye drifting closed for the last time, eyelashes on his cheek. A breath emits from his lips, and nothing more. His hand in my own go slack and cannon fire jolts above me, telling me that his heart has stopped. It's over. Finn's gone.

A sob bubbles up in my chest, but I keep it in, staring down at his face with unseeing eyes. I don't want to believe it, but I must. I have to go.

This isn't my best friend anymore. He's slipped away, now, perhaps soaring from here like a bird...

Gently, I twist and turn the ring off his finger, digits smearing with blood. I slide it on my thumb, aware that the hovercraft will be here soon.

"You're beating me home," I remark tremulously, sadly. "Like when we used to race, remember? You always let me win. But now it's your turn."

My throat hurts. I force the words out. "It's your turn," I repeat, and recite an old phrase from home, voice cracking, "rise as high as you can."

The statement applies to trees and nothing special, but trees that are taller give us more money. The phrase itself means growth. It means success. It means life. For Finn, it means liberty. He gets to leave the arena and rise out out it, like a tree that stretches high to the heavens.

I brush blood-matted hair from his forehead and place a kiss on the spot, collecting myself until I can step far back enough from the body.

The hovercraft claw descends and encases Finn in its clutches, and I watch him and the silent vehicle disappear from sight.

"Bye," I croak out when I can. Still armed with my knife, I cast a final look at the crimson colored leaves on the ground and walk away.

* * *

><p>It takes me awhile to reach my tree again. I walk slow, not bothering to rush. What's the point? There's no one chasing me, at least not yet.<p>

The sun beats down on the back of my neck as I retrieve Finn's bag from his perch and sit on my branch, consolidating his things into my backpack, save for the spear, which I think the Careers took with them. Altogether, I have my box of matches, the jacket, the first aid kit, the compass, Finn's canteen, my canteen, a small portion of bread, two biscuits, and some fruit. The food will last me another day or two, and I can go get more water from the caves when I run low. It's more than I need, but there's no way I'm sharing with someone else or leaving it around.

I pull Finn's token off my thumb and place it on my lap. Unfastening Rachel's necklace, I slide Finn's ring along the chain, so it hangs beside the golden _R _charm and then reconnect the clasp. I hide the necklace under my shirt again, holding what's most important to me at my heart.

The double vow. The oath to go home. I can't break it now. I can't. I won't.

Subdued, I swing my legs a little, lips pursed. What should I do today? I have enough food. A good amount of water, too. There's nothing I require.

I want someone to talk to but the chances of finding a nonviolent tribute that just wants a conversation is like finding a beetle in a forest.

_It's so quiet_, I think, as birds chirp in the woods. There isn't an insufferably happy boy with me anymore. He doesn't exist. He's gone.

My whole body aches. My arms and legs, from running and climbing so much. My eyes, for seeing something so horrible and the tears that felt endless. My ears, for hearing such pain. My head, for knowing what I've lost. My heart, for losing someone I had without knowing their value.

How does one grieve in the Games?

No, that would make me pathetic and weak. But I'm finding that I don't care much for sponsors anymore, or Capitol viewers. I have people at home that can take care of me. Sure, they can't give a lot because it's so expensive, but they did send something before. And I can hunt, sort of.

Suddenly, I remember Carole. My stomach lurches. She must be a wreck. Has Finn been sent home yet? Has her son been returned to her?

I want to apologize to her. For not caring about her son in the way he needed. For not watching my feet and wasting time. For being too late.

I inhale shakily, loneliness bearing down on my shoulders. There's no escaping it―I really am by myself. No friends, no allies, nothing.

Midday passes slowly and I am still immobile, sitting on my branch, head low. Nobody's come my way and I'm high up enough to not be noticed.

Several times in the afternoon, I catch myself looking down, as if I'll see Finn there, like nothing's happened. I half expect him to show up and offer me a piece of fruit or tell me a joke or flash a boyish grin, like he used to do. Adjusting to his absence will be something akin to a miracle.

Before I know it, it's nighttime. The anthem drones on until it's the death recap. Finn's face is the only one shown and a lump rises in my throat.

Sixteen tributes dead. Eight tributes left to play. Day nine comes to a close but brings me no closure. Empty and grim, I submit to sleep.

* * *

><p>Besieged with nightmares, I rise at daybreak. Yesterday's evils jump back into my head and I blanch, chewing on a biscuit to do something productive. I finish eating and pack up my supplies, knife clipped safely to my belt as I scale the tree and land on my feet. Today, I'll find a new campsite. I might as well do some exploring, too. The Gamemarkers made this arena for us tributes―why not look around? I'll swing by the caves on the way. Remembering the last time I was there, I had a companion, I close my eyes for a moment and rally, locking my grief away.<p>

The weather's mild and sunny, but the balmy air is comfortable. I like having such distractions; it's mindless and better than being forced to think. As long as I have a goal or two, I won't lapse into gloomy feelings and perpetual, regretful thoughts. Doing something useful will keep me sane.

My journey to the caves is a half an hour longer than usual because I take a new route, purposefully avoiding the spot where the Careers attacked Finn. I know I won't be able to stomach it so the extra distance is a bit cathartic. I can do this. I can work alone, but it'll take a bit of time.

Once I arrive, I set up all of my canteens with iodine to treat the water and then start to wash, scrubbing off dirt and sweat and blood that's accumulated on my body. I redress, slightly revitalized. The feeling of being dirty is still present, but I suspect that's in my head than on my body.

Cautious of other tributes, I collect my things quickly and return to the forest. I opt to go hunt while scouting the west side of the arena, and then I hear it. A rumble, just like before. Curiosity springs anew. I want to know what it is. A thunderstorm on the horizon? No, because the sky is clear. So it must be something else. Something big, if it can generate enough energy to make a such sound an audible across many miles of woods.

A muttation, maybe?

Regardless, I walk in that direction, tentatively. Not watching my feet has brought me trouble and not being alert has nearly gotten me killed.

Still, I heed my compass and soon, I closer to the disturbance as it thunders up again. What is it? An enormous beast? A nearing earthquake?

The trek brings me to a small copse. I don't understand why it seems odd, because the canopy isn't entirely covered and I can see nothing peculiar in this woodland, except that the trees are a very bright shade of green. Still, unease appears but I can't seem to leave yet.

Suddenly dizzy, I lean on a tree, squinting against the unexpected migraine that's drilling into my skull. I try to rationalize this reaction. I'm not dehydrated. I'm not hungry. But _she_ is.

I blink, positive I'm seeing things. But I'm actually not―there's the girl from 10, stepping into the clearing several feet ahead, her back to me. I watch her, hidden from view by my tree. She's definitely hungry. She's tall but scarily thin and looks like she's about to collapse. I can't see her face but I can see the twitchy, impatient air of her, as if she's found some food and is desperate to get it. Why here, though, and not elsewhere?

Her feet carry her further and I stare, wondering what is making her do this. Why walk so slowly, and so strangely?

My eyes follow her path and I do a double take. A piece of fruit? That's all she's looking at?

Oh, there it is. Hanging from a branch. It looks like an apple, almost. The girl keeps moving toward it and I just watch, still not ready to leave now. My eyes drift languidly between her and a small ax, propped up against a tree, obviously hers. I blink again and a hiss escapes my mouth, feeling a headache corkscrewing right into my temple but manage to register the value of her discarded weapon. It's something I can use effectively and disarms her if she is to turn around. I didn't have time to get one in the Cornucopia...stealing isn't a taboo in the Games, I've seen it happen...

Teeth gritted against the unusual, debilitating nausea that is hovering in my throat and head, I shuffle forward, legs like jelly.

My fingers close around the ax handle as hers, I see, in the corner of my eye, close around the reddish fruit and tug, and then, hell breaks lose.

There is a deafening roar, one so loud that I stumble backwards in alarm and land flat on my back, the ax blade thankfully landing beside me and not on my forehead while my fingers are still locked around the handle. The girl flinches, terrified, but doesn't let go of the fruit. _Run_, I want to yell. She keeps tugging and I realize in horror that she's practically glued to it. Her palm, adhered to the little sphere, cannot let it go. The roar sounds up again and I scramble to my feet, panicked and fearful. The trees, so vibrantly viridian in color, are not trees at all. It's a colossal mouth.

The name jumps into my head, having since studied all kinds of plants in school as by my district's curriculum.

Venus Flytrap.

The mouth opens more and a long feeler escapes, writhing and twisting. The girl tries harder to escape, but it's in vain. She can't. She's ensnared, lured and stuck by the bait. I can't help her―it would endanger my life and as rotten as it is, I can't choose her over me. I must win alone.

The mechanism of the plant is different from what I know. Normally, it's about a foot tall and it has a jaw with hairs on it that snaps shut in twenty seconds if suitable prey has been found. But this one, besides being extraordinarily and unimaginably enlarged, has been tampered with by Capitol. It is more dangerous than before, and far more grotesque, almost alien. This manufactured specimen is an unquestionable abomination.

The feeler thrashes and all I hear is an awful scream before the feeler reaches the girl and with one jerk, rips her heart right out of her chest.

I spin on my heel and swallow bile as revulsion insists on the opposite. I sprint from the scene, free hand clamped over my mouth. Disgust and chagrin has me heaving and it gets worse when I hear the cannon go off, signaling the poor tribute's death. Sickened, I find a log to sit on about a mile or two away, breathing hard through my nose. A muttation created from a rare, carnivorous plant. Why am I so surprised? Capitol labs can do whatever they please if it suits the high standards of the Gamemakers. Everyone wants an interesting and exciting Games, don't they?

Slowly, I remember the dizziness before the attack and realize it must have been a pheromone trap. Only certain types of insects have this trait, but the Gamemakers must've infused it with their monstrous invention. The trap sends out a scent that entices victims to stay in one place, making them easy prey. That's why I was woozy―the pheromones were keeping me there, but I wasn't close enough to be tempted by the bait.

I sip some water in the hopes that it'll soothe my stomach, the urge to vomit still present.

Capitol is as barbaric as I'd believed. I don't know why I was waiting for a sign of something different. This only confirms what I already know.

I run a hand through my hair, pulling on a grubby blonde strand. The cave water hasn't helped much. I must look terrible, but I don't care.

Seven tributes left. The nitty-gritty, now. Deadlocked ranks. We've all gotten this far. It could be anyone in this arena that gets the crown.

Any of us can win. The odds fluctuate, as if undecided, caught up in scheduled Gamemaker diversions, Career hunts, and organized mutt attacks.

It just gives me a huge headache.

Making myself concentrate, I examine my newest prize. An ax, something that will benefit me a lot more than a knife would.

_How formidable I can be_, I think with some pride. The Careers have their unique talents―Sunshine and Sugar with hand to hand combat, Jesse with his bow and arrows, Sebastian with a sword―and now, I have mine. I have an edge. I have something tangible to show that I'm valuable.

I swing it a little, appreciating the slight whistle it gives as it flies through the air. Yes, this definitely lightens me up some.

I choose to leave after several moments, wary of the Flytrap's perimeter, making a mental note to steer clear of this part of the island.

Backpack assembled, knife at my belt, and ax at the ready, I don't detect movement until a voice floats to my ears as footsteps slow to a stop.

"Hello."

* * *

><p>I don't hesitate and spin around, ax about to fly and kill when the sight of a familiar girl makes my heart seize and my weapon grip to loosen.<p>

No, not familiar. Similar. Comparable to the original but not the same. Still, coinciding enough to cause me some unease.

The tribute from District 8 that resembles Rachel so closely stands about a yard or two away, eyes benign but vacant, is smiling at me.

I can almost hear the audience roaring at their television screens, demanding me to chuck the ax and bury it in her chest, anticipating her end.

She's not armed. She's not running. She's just..._looking_ at me, with cloudy blue eyes that stare and stare and stare, as if mildly surprised at my presence.

Frustration boils in my brain, one half as impatient as Capitol and the other wondering why I can't do it. I can't kill her. Not _her_. Not this one.

_Not her_, my mind yells.

I wouldn't be able to bear the remorse for this girl. The boy from District 3 and Blaine were strangers. Finn's death still hurts. But her? She is just too much like Rachel. It's annoying and saddening and baffling but a louder voice in my brain screams a 'no', refusing to condone her murder.

My arm sinks weightily to my side, ax blade bumping against my boot. Great. I show my wits against Blaine but I can't kill a defenseless tribute.

Her head tilts slightly, as if waiting for something, and dimly, I realize I haven't offered her a response.

"Hi," I say awkwardly with a little wave. "Umm..." I need a good cover. Something to hide my internal conflict. "D'you...want to be allies?"

Why ask this? We're strangers and she has nothing to give. Where is this trust in her coming from? The audience must be confused.

"Okay," she says vaguely, simply, like she's unconcerned with alliances and sponsors and Hunger Games, or she can't be bothered.

There are seven people left in the Games and I've allied myself with someone not only unprotected by a weapon, but someone who doesn't care.

The girl's still examining me, brows furrowed, and I gesture uncertainly to the south. "Um...we should get moving..."

"Moving?" She repeats, eyes a little glazed. I look at her, puzzled. She seemed fine in training. Composed and laughing with her district partner.

Oh. _Oh._ The boy with her, I can see him in my mind, clear as day. Across the cafeteria, tugging unhappily on his sleeve. He died in the bloodbath.

It makes sense now.

The lack of interest in basic survival strategies. The airy, dreamy style of speaking. The moments of confusion. The way she offered a hello instead of attacking me. No weapon, no backpack or means of concealment...no food with her, either. She's preoccupied psychologically with other things.

She's mad. Not severely, but slightly. Enough for me to know that there's something wrong with her and it's obvious.

The arena has made her go mad―trauma, stress, the ordeal itself―and here she is, lost and befuddled in an environment that will undoubtedly kill her at some point. I don't know how to process all of this. How can I protect her? If I can't kill her, will I let her walk into danger? What should I do? What _can_ I do? I choose my words cautiously. I don't want her to believe that I think less of her. I don't. I just wish I could fix her, somehow.

"So the Careers don't find us," I elaborate. That seems to get through to her and I see her expression harden before it goes blank again.

"Okay," she repeats. With only some trepidation, I surrender my knife and attach it to her belt, so she's not completely vulnerable.

"I don't know your name," I muse as we walk south, a strange duo by comparison to other alliances, as this bond was formed late in the Games.

She rubs her head and my eyes flick up, suspicions confirmed. The Games aren't the only thing that's hurt her―she has a bruise on her temple.

I recall what facts I know from school...disorientation, inattentiveness, confusion, blurry vision...it all fit her perfectly. She has a concussion.

Unfortunately, I haven't got a team of doctors nor any sort of medication to fix her. Concussions aren't fatal, so I'm afraid she's stuck like this.

She looks hungry, too. And really tired. All and all, she also has the appearance of someone who has lost more weight than she should've.

"Harmony," she says suddenly, like she's waking from a dream. This clarity makes her seem fearless, even if it's fleeting. "What's yours?"

"Quinn."

"Hmm," she mumbles, mulling it over. "Pretty."

It's a miracle she's survived this long. Eleven days or so, alone, with Careers wandering about and various dangers from the Gamemakers.

"Thanks," I concede, and she sidles an absentminded smile at me. Her smile stays and I find some relief in it. I'm not alone anymore.

Of course, this can only be brief venture, but I cling to the comfort of companionship. Being lonely doesn't suit me well. I need the company.

We climb over roots with care as we traipse further into the jungle. Harmony is more graceful but I lead and she obeys without complaint.

Has Capitol's view of me as a tribute changed yet? Have they criticized my actions and dropped bets on my victory? I can imagine that occurring easily. I went from being a ruthless strategist to a sympathetic griever to an indecisive imbecile. They wouldn't want someone so inconsistent.

Again, I begin to realize that I don't care for viewers. I've clawed my way this far into the Games. I can still progress onward without their help.

The sun is low when I glance at the sky, the events of today slamming together in my head. I woke up, saw someone get their heart yanked from their body, and then joined forces with someone very unbalanced and a little suspicious. For all I know, she isn't crazy and I'm walking to my death. But my instincts, honed from being in the arena, tell me different and all I can sense is a confused, withdrawn girl who needs a friend.

We walk in silence but she looks like she wants to talk and we take a break, sitting on the forest floor. I keep an eye out for trouble, though.

"What happened to your district partner?" Harmony queries in a voice like wind chimes. I wince, unable to prevent the rush of pain to my heart.

"He's dead."

"Oh," she deliberates, looking into the distance. "I saw him in the Training Center...he smiled at me once."

"Sounds like him," I grant, throat tight. Finn was always someone entirely too friendly.

Harmony nods.

"Kurt would've liked you," she remarks, lucid again. "He's gone now, too."

"Who got him?" I inquire. Harmony's lips purse as she attempts to remember. Unconsciously, her fingers climb to her scalp, touching the bruise.

"It was so confusing," she admits softly. "We both swam to the rocks but he thought he could get some supplies...he got an arrow in his head."

"Jesse," I confirm with distaste. Kurt must've made it past the sea monster and Blaine and Sunshine but not completely out of harm's way.

"From Two," Harmony acquiesces, surprising me with her knowledge of the remaining tributes. "And I ran away, and...I _fell_..."

Distressed, she bites her lip and screws her eyes shut, looking for all the world like she was a small child again, scared of something irrational.

Her expression saddens me. She can't help her own discombobulation and the episodes of agitation seem to be happening more often.

Will I be around when she finally deteriorates?

There are worse ways to die and yet, this one looks to be the most upsetting. To feel your mind slipping away until you're all but a sitting duck...

"Let's get a move on," I suggest, to pacify both of us, and she acquiesces obediently, hazy and distant again, and stands up.

We move further south as the afternoon stretches on, swatting buzzing gnats from our faces. The Cornucopia must be another hour or so of walking, so I steer us on a costal path, bringing us to a rocky crag. This not like the rocks that I jumped on in my attempt to find safety on the first day. This one is uneven and jagged, with low cliffs and ledges and high up from the water. I estimate it to be about a hundred feet or more.

Waves crash against the rocks below as Harmony and I study the ocean for a minute, watching the sun lowering on the horizon.

Harmony seems to like this spot, so I insist we camp several yards into the jungle for protection. Realizing she doesn't have any provisions or supplies to sleep comfortably, I opt to keep watch and say I'll wake her when I get tired. She's out before the anthem and I sit on the branch below her, like Finn used to do for me. The recap only shows the girl from District 10 and it's over right afterwards, covering us in darkness.

I don't do much except sit and slide my finger along the ax blade, not sleepy at all.

How much longer can this go on? Hiding from the Careers? These Games are certainly lax on forcing us to interact. Some years are duds and some are successes. This one hovers between the two, I believe. The drama of it could be fueling the lack of speciality Gamemaker tricks. Finn's emotional end, Blaine's grisly one, and the countless others that I haven't seen. Maybe I'm wrong―big things could be happening elsewhere.

Still, even without pushing from the Gamemakers, I do want to find a way to get rid of them. Four dead Careers are better than four living ones.

_How to go about it...?_

A second trap is out of the question. I won't risk it. Attacking them openly is also foolish and I disregard it. I would be extremely outnumbered.

Frustrated, I stop scheming. Things will happen, with or without plans. Boring Games are not a hit in Capitol. They'll orchestrate something.

Still, thoughts of obliterating the Careers from existence drift back into focus. Sebastian, Sugar, Jesse, and Sunshine are the hardest competitors left in the arena. Harmony isn't a threat to me, and I'm not sure about the last person...the boy from District 6. I don't remember if he seemed dangerous. I concentrate on the Careers, though, because they will hunted be first. Finn's death was a savage act and it was utterly unnecessary for them to be so violent. Their excitement to kill tributes is sickening and I refuse to let one of them be crowned victor, not without a struggle.

Harmony shifts on the branch above and I decide not to wake her at all, mostly because I don't trust her to be an effective watch.

Pushing away troubling thoughts that involve avoid killing her myself, I sigh and prepare for a long night.

* * *

><p>Somewhere during the evening, exhaustion appeared and I let my eyes close for too long, promising I'd be able to wake myself up in a minute.<p>

Voices register in my ears and I scramble from my perch, backpack half slung over my shoulder and ax gripped haphazardly in my hand, and stumble back to the crag, still befuddled. Comprehension rushes in as I listen to an argument between two girls, one sounding more menacing than the other. The scene that I crash into is a grave one―Harmony is trapped between Sunshine and a dangerous cliff, unable to run past the Career without facing a knife. Sunshine whirls around and spots me and I don't think, I just run. We crash into each other and tumble to the ground, wrestling and punching and clawing, weapons tossed aside and forgotten. Harmony is out of harm's way, I manage to see with relief.

Sunshine's eyes are full of rage as she closes her hands around my throat, fingernails scratching on my skin. There's a manic light in her face and I don't want it to be the last thing I see in this world. I kick my legs harder and keep fighting at her hold, easily switching our positions so I'm the one holding her down. She's much smaller than I am and weighs a lot less―she can't keep me pinned forever, regardless of her fighting ability.

There's another rotation and her grasp around my throat is tighter this time. I shove my hands in desperation but she's squeezing too hard and my vision is starting to blur and Harmony's shrieking loudly and I give one more feeble push, as hard as I can, and suddenly, Sunshine is gone.

A cannon booms somewhere overhead and I know that I have just killed a second Career.

I inhale gulps of air, feeling pain on my throat, collarbone, and jaw. I sit up even though I'm still dizzy and breathing hard, and glance at Harmony, who stares back at me with overlarge eyes, expression bordering on hysteria. She knows I'm all right, so she stays where she is, holding my supplies in silence. She won't run away, I can tell that just by looking at her. She has my things and I'm defenseless, but I know she won't leave. She's not that type of person. Capitol has not been able to create a selfish persona with her. She's loyal to me in a competition of self servitude.

Light-headed and weak, I climb to my knees, carefully, because the cliff is mere inches away. Now understanding Sunshine's death, I look down.

She's there, on a low rock about fifty feet below me, arms and legs spread out like a star. She looks peaceful, but the nature of her demise makes my stomach twist and I know that is not the case. My eyes flit from her body's arrangement to her head, where an unpleasant reddish stain can be seen from up here. Blood. Having gawked at her long enough, I step away as a hovercraft materializes from the heavens and retrieves her body.

_She didn't even have time to scream_, I think numbly.

Six tributes left. Eighteen eliminated. Three by my hand, whether I willed it to happen or not.

Harmony is still unblinking and frozen when I reach her and get my things, attaching my ax back to my belt.

"Come on," I order roughly. "We need to move. The Careers will be on us soon."

Sunshine's presence here either means she had split from the other three or this is merely a ruse and the four of them are still an alliance.

"Okay," Harmony whispers, trusting my judgement implicitly. I wish she wouldn't. I wish she would run, and yet, I want her to stay.

It's not even noon yet and I've just thrown someone to their death. That's the Hunger Games for you.

My ally talks to fill the silence as I bite my tongue, images of Sunshine's rage and her corpse flashing before my eyes. Listening to Harmony's words helps, though. She tells me about District 8, working hours at the textile factory. The room is loud and dangerous, according to her description of the looms and various machines used to dress Panem's wealthy citizens and anyone else with enough money to buy fabric. Her and the other females in the district are assigned to spinning or knitting the threads while the men usually operate the dyeing and bleaching stations.

"Sometimes Kurt and I would sing together on our breaks," she says, wistful and sad.

I'm not sure how to answer so I just nod. Harmony doesn't notice it, anyway. Her eyes are remote and preoccupied, dimly aware of her surroundings but unconcerned with them. I study her for the rest of the day, watching her 'episodes'. They don't have a trigger, really, or an allocated time. Conversations with her can have her full attention or none at all. These moments of hers last for several minutes at the most.

Meanwhile, I start to fret over this partnership. Yes, I appreciate the soothing presence of someone not about to kill me, but it can't go on for much longer. She's not my duty―I'm not in charge of her. We are mere opponents in the end. And the end has to be me by myself, the last one to live. The solitary survivor. The Games are only designed for one victor and I can't have her as a handicap, and yet, the thought of leaving her alone and defenseless makes shame materialize and linger in my head. She's not suited for this competition. She's more a child than the rest of us.

And the fact that she looks and acts so much like the girl I care about back home is one more reason to feel guiltier than ever.

Harmony wanders over from a small clearing to where I sit on a stump and hands me a flower before flitting back, humming under her breath.

Great. Excess guilt.

I toy with the stem, pulling on the petals with my fingers. The flower is like Harmony; white and innocent in a foreboding, perilous location.

I eventually decide to just go with the flow. Whatever happens, happens. But the darkness, the one that's been just out of sight since Blaine's death, sidles into view, unfurling and undulating until I feel like poison is prickling in my stomach, as if I'd swallowed thorns. Somehow, I need to organize Harmony's death. Or do it myself. But do I have the strength for that? Nobody in this arena deserves to die, but the odds have chosen us. Our statuses as tributes makes us all eligible to be killed, and if I want to escape this and go back to 7, no one can stand in my way. I can see this murder―if I am the one who is to do it―destroying me from the inside out. But that won't matter, if I live. Perhaps Capitol could fix me up.

I refuse to cry but I can feel the tears rising and my throat closing. When did I become _this_ person? I sound like a Career with these ideas.

Am I still Quinn Fabray from District 7? Or am I someone else, warped and muddled by the Games until I am a shadow of who I used to be?

At least we aren't equipped with mirrors in the arena. I wouldn't be able to handle looking at myself right now.

"Okay?" Harmony murmurs suddenly, startling me from my trance. I look up into her inquisitive, vacant face and have to bite my lip to stop a stupid apology from escaping. Sorry for what? Planning her murder in my head and pretending that our alliance is actually worth something?

"Okay," I lie, avoiding her gaze. "I think we're close to the caves...let's go get some water."

* * *

><p>A day passes with no progress. There is a second thunderstorm, but not nearly as severe. Capitol's impatience is tangible now. They want gore.<p>

They receive an acceptable alternative.

I chew on a slice of avocado and give Harmony her share. Today, we're hunting in the jungle, because we're lacking a sufficient amount of meat in our diets. The boar tracks are much easier to trail at this point in the Games because there's less people to watch out for. I can discern the strange snuffling sounds from its snout, maybe trotting a mile ahead of us. Our tread is careful and we manage to follow it with relative stealth.

There's silence except bird calls and wind rustling leaves, and then, the sound of an elastic band snapping as loud as a bullet from a gun.

I spin around at the horrible noise that follows. Harmony teeters dangerously and wrenches a dart from her skin, a thick stream of blood starting from the wound in her neck. I rush to her and catch her by the elbows, holding her up. She's starting to gasp and her limbs are trembling violently. I shoulder some of her weight and balance one of her arms across my shoulder, half-dragging her to a nondescript clump of bushes.

"Harmony?" I blurt out wildly. "Harmony?"

She inhales noisily for breath, sounding like her lungs are closing up.

Panicked, it only takes me seconds to dig through my backpack and find the gauze from my unused first aid kit. I unroll some of it and dab at the gash, curling the bandage around her throat so it'll keep out infection from the dirt beneath her. Harmony continues to pant, forehead shiny with sweat. I cast a look at the projectile on the ground, teeth bared together in anger. A trip wire. I must've stepped right over it, but Harmony wasn't so lucky. The dart is poisoned, too. Otherwise, I could patch this up and she could walk away from it. But this is some sort of immobilizing toxin.

Harmony manages to stop moving around, sensing it will just cause more pain. I sit next to her, applying pressure on the injury.

Struggling to speak, she goes cross-eyed for a second, looking dully up at me. The resemblance to Finn's death brings me nothing but anguish.

"Quinn?" She rasps. The sound is so gritty and awful, I shiver with revulsion.

There isn't confusion in her tone nor in her gaze. She's lucid and frightened and so am I. She's the second person I am losing in the arena.

"Here, right here," I reassure her softly, barely keeping the tremor from my voice. "I won't leave you."

Her limbs shake involuntarily, reacting against the poison. I unwind an additional sheet of bandages and pat it on her clammy forehead.

I can't fix her. It's impossible.

I couldn't fix Finn and I can't fix Harmony. This dart will kill her in a few minutes. Despite that fact, I won't leave until she's gone from this place.

"Thanks," she says hoarsely, mental clarity showing me a new identity. The one before the Games. The girl in training. Before the madness hit.

"For what?" I ask, letting our hands entwine to soothe her. She's still quivering with pain, though. I'm not as broken up about it as I was with Finn, but it does hurt very badly to see her like this. Maybe it's the unwilling solace to know that she is not Rachel and that Rachel is at home watching, unharmed. They are separate people but watching Harmony die isn't a relief. I just feel powerless, wishing I could've stopped the dart.

"Being my friend," Harmony explains, words making my heart splinter. "Taking care of me, saving me...you didn't have to but you did anyway..."

"You remind me of someone I know," I confess. Harmony manages a shaky grin.

"Good for me," she says feebly. I nod, eyes brimming with tears. I won't ever forget her, my makeshift, temporary anchor of sanity. She's done more than she knows. Finn's absence still makes a pit of despair in my chest but Harmony's grief sedated mine, at least for a little while.

"You and Kurt were the only ones who cared about me," she croaks. "You listened to me. Why didn't anyone else? Why didn't they hear me?"

"I don't know," I say helplessly, sorry that I can't give her all the answers. Her eyes are cloudy now, blue staring up at me like she used to do.

"Why didn't anyone hear me?" She repeats slower, softer, almost to herself.

"They will," I promise, remembering her love to sing with her friend. "I did and everyone will hear you too, wherever you go."

"Really?" She presses with desperate intensity. She wants attention, the knowledge that people appreciate her_. _She wants people to care.

There has to be a world after this one. Panem holds nothing but misery. The Games destroy us year after year and the nation toes the line of starvation on a daily basis. The reward and hope of an afterlife filled with happiness and security is the only thing some of us can really believe in.

"Really," I confirm, and Harmony relaxes a little, poison nearly done with its job. Her breathing is shallow and her eyes are half-closed.

She doesn't ask me a question again and just looks, wasting away as the minutes slip past us. Numb and cold, I keep our fingers laced tightly.

She smiles at me once more with her last bit of strength, and then it's done. The grasp on my hand loosens as the cannon fires.

My chin wobbles as I lean over, close her eyes, and then stand up. I collect my things and my ax, kick the dart under some roots, and leave.

* * *

><p>The comfort of a friend is gone and so is my confidence. I ache everywhere and seem to have a permanent burning feeling in my chest. My eyes are heavy with exhaustion but I won't dare go to sleep. I don't want to be incapacitated again. Five of us are left and three are Careers. My odds are taunting but I fight to keep the agony from my face. Cameras will be fixed on me constantly from now on, capturing every painful moment.<p>

My only incentive to get to the end is how close it is. Victory is just out of reach and the crown is up for grabs. It's up to me to catch it.

The anthem brings me more news than I anticipated and makes me gasp. Jesse is dead, along with the boy from District 6 and lastly, Harmony.

A shudder rattles up my spine. There are _three_ tributes left. Not five. Two Careers―Sebastian and Sugar―and me. That's it. No more, no less.

I set my jaw.

This revelation does not bring hope. It brings fear. Two of the best hunters will be searching for _me_ before they fight each other.

I am so out of my league.

I inhale deeply, forcing air into my lungs. Shivering with terror, I run my finger along the ax's blade. Where is my motivational speech? Where is the moment where I stamp out this trepidation and rally with a vow to annihilate my enemies? Where is my spirit? My certainty to succeed?

I have nothing left. No one to turn to. My family and friends' budget was most likely used on their first and only gift to me and Finn. I won't be acquiring one from a Capitol citizen. Two tributes, both from a pampered district, will get it all. I can only rely on my meager wits and the woods.

Will they hunt at night? All day? Separate, or stick together? The tension must be strong, even if I'm the target at the moment, because the very second my cannon fires, it will be a matter of who can move quicker, act smarter, and be stronger. It's one or the other and they are unpredictable.

There is nothing to do but evade capture at all costs. Maybe I can kill one when the other is too far off, but the chance of an ambush is possible.

I wonder if the Gamemakers will impose a feast or other way to force a confrontation, but they might not. The betting is high enough right now.

_This will not be the end of me_, I proclaim silently, a defiant sneer on my lips.

_This will not make me cower from a challenge._

_This will not make me give up._

_This will not be my death._

This will only be my darkest hour and for a moment, I let the anxiety and panic in, but eventually, I can strong. I will adapt, and I will survive.

* * *

><p>I do not spend the night idle in a tree, counting the hours until I am found. I don't light a match, but I do use the moonlight to practice my skills, stopping every once and awhile to listen for approaching feet. The ax can be used for long distance throws, the knife for short ones. The knife is easier to maneuver but the ax is more satisfying. It requires more power and with the proper positioning of my feet, I can accomplish quite a lot.<p>

Vulnerable and less experienced, I'm aware that I cannot fight as well as they can. But I have a promise to keep and that keeps me working.

Determination and a solid goal keeps me sane. Otherwise, I'd be a gibbering mess and wandering around in the open.

Rachel's _R_ charm and Finn's ring are cold against my throat as I pack up my gear, but both items feel sort of soothing to me.

Brandishing my ax, I desert my newest camp and traipse further into the forest. Traveling is the safer and I won't to be stuck in one place.

The woodland animals seem to be able to comprehend the tension exacerbating from the arena because I don't hear a single peep or chirp as I climb over a large root. It makes sense, though. Animals have keener instincts than humans and will choose security over venturing out for food.

No noise is an obstacle. I must be silent and sneaky to be more adept than the Careers. I need to best them at their own game.

This island is enormous, though, so I know there will be fruitless, frustrating searches, especially if it's only the three of us inhabiting it.

As I decided to do last night, I act overconfident and hide the intense bouts of dread and fright that I am plagued with. It's a two-on-one contest and my fortunes are very low, so of course I can be scared. This time in the Games is the worst because losing is much more devastating if you are this close to the finish. The first day and other days are less disappointing because the odds are already stacked against you. But now? Here? I have about a thirty-three percent chance of winning and falling short of the goal would be crueler punishment than being killed in the bloodbath.

I avoid crossing an open field and keep my pace within the confines of the trees, directing my thoughts to the Careers.

I am almost positive that they have split apart by now. Amicably or not, they would've recognized each other's considerable prowess and booked it, putting distance between each other as quickly as possible. That makes sense―why waste precious energy on each other when they can take me out, the weakest one? Then there would be no distractions or surprises after I've been taken out. They would fight knowing that it would be the final showdown with no variables to deter it.

My only advantage is being that variable. Tricky and elusive and waiting for an opportunity to strike. Unexpected attacks are my best weapon.

I can't be on the defense again. Offensive moves will make things go quicker than just hiding and waiting to be ambushed.

That is, if I _could_ attack Sebastian or Sugar. Besides their obvious strength as Careers, they will be cautious and not make themselves known.

Discouraged and troubled, I set up my camp in a tree after only a few hours of scouring the arena in vain. It's strange to do that all day. Acting like a Career, searching for someone to eliminate. The hunts must be frustrating, when no one is found and no kills made. I chew on some fruit to satisfy my hunger, having not risked finding a fox or rabbit and starting a fire. I'll get something tomorrow, when the sun's higher in the sky.

No boars, though. Too big and too noisy. I am devoted to stealth and slyness. I must not be detected.

Both of my competitors are alive and by the time all is quiet again, I'm worried. Nothing's happened. That means we'll be pushed together.

I sleep for several hours, restless, and am on the move when I wake up, making sure I don't leave tracks as I keep an eye out for breakfast.

I swat insects from my face, eyes lowered to the underbrush.

Thoughts of hunting bring me memories of Finn and I purse my lips, muscles rigid. I want to chastise myself for being distracted again by something I could not control, but I let some of my heartache seep into my mind. I shouldn't freeze everything out. That's not how you heal. That's how you get by. I have to learn how to let things go, little by little. But his presence lingers and the supplies rattling around in my pack are stark reminders of him. How can I get used to losing something so constant since my childhood? I don't know how else to mourn him. He was alive and with me only several days ago, and the rippling despair of knowing he's truly dead and not coming back hits me over and over again.

Harmony's passing hurts less but is still painful. Between missing the two of them, it feels like I've lost an arm or a leg.

I want Finn's optimism. I want Harmony's oddity. I want Finn's inability to be serious and Harmony's eccentric comments on her surroundings.

That's why the Games are so hard. I've never stopped being dependent on other people, despite my resolution after Reaping Day to be strong.

Being strong is a backbreaking effort. I can't do it. The feat is too far away and guilt of killing someone adds more weight, stopping all vigor.

I am unable to rid myself of my conscious like the Careers can. They can smile and cheer like it's natural, but it isn't. It's wrong. And evil. Despite being raised in a world that endorses sanctioned murder for sport, I cannot stoop to that level and come out unscathed and unaffected by my actions. Most tributes can't either, like the ones that aren't from 1, 2, or 4. Once crowned, they turn to drink or drugs to suppress their shame.

I don't know if this fact makes me weak, or human, or just a child, frightened and terrified of being left alone or being judged.

Today is hot and humid and sweat collects quickly on the back of my neck, regardless of the shade and cover of the canopy. I wander aimlessly, edgy and jumpy, certain that I am being followed. Once or twice, I swear I see something dart in and out of sight, but upon further investigation, I chalk it up to paranoia. It's understandable, though. I'm trapped in an arena like a rat with two deadlier 'rats' and both would kill me at the chance.

How much longer until the Gamemakers grow thirsty for carnage?

The same question hits me around noon and as I finally what I should've realized earlier, I can actually discern a footfall from somewhere close to me. This is the reason the Gamemakers haven't intervened. The reason why it's so quiet and why I can't find a single animal to eat. Why there hasn't been some sort of disturbance like a freak hailstorm or random blizzard. Their audience has their coveted drama and it's right behind me.

There isn't even time to turn around before I get hit.

Splinters of pure agony shoot up my left arm as I wrench a knife from my flesh, but I don't get any further than that―a body tackles me to the ground and we grapple blindly for supremacy. Sugar has me pinned, like Sunshine did, and I fight her hard, not willing to submit to defeat. This clash is bloodier and more desperate; I can sense Sugar's haste to finish me off. My left arm goes numb as blood continues to pool on the ground. Sugar's weight presses me down as her punch makes me see stars and my cheek begin to ache. Her hands are like claws but I land a blow right at her nose and that makes her pause for a second, allowing me time to twist her wrist. I keep twisting it, harshly, as her pained swears continue.

Her bone snaps and she screams, the sound echoing shrilly in my ears. I push her off and stagger a little, hand cupping the wound on my arm.

It isn't deep but feels like lead and blood coats my fingers, unable to be ceased by pressure alone.

Sugar's up and charging before I can escape and we collide in a furious, head-on impact. My weight carries us and she lands flat on her back, fingernails scrabbling at any skin that she can reach. She, like Sunshine, tries to wrap her hands around my throat but I'm ready for her and land a punch, making her head swing sideways and blood to trickle past her lips. I get another hit, this time at her temple before she growls at me, eyes flashing, and manages to wriggle out of my hold, running doggedly for her fallen backpack. I blink confusedly, head ringing, and wobble to my feet. Her knife whizzes past me and I see her furious expression. I must've broken her throwing hand and she can only use her weaker one.

Vision hazy, I stumble forward as Sugar does, probably as dizzy as I am. She cradles her head, robotically searching for a second knife to throw.

Taking advantage of her disorientation, I stumble away.

I reach my things, having since abandoned them, and close my fingers around the ax handle. I pivot, dazed, and see her image swimming in front of my eyes. She's nearing now, arms extended in my direction, and I do nothing but stand there, pain from my head and arm starting to overwhelm me.

_This is a Career! _My mind yells. _Kill her! Do something! NOW! NOW!_

Bewildered and sore, I go with the only thing that makes sense. I step back as Sugar only draws closer, almost in slow motion, and sling my ax.

It's over so fast, just like what happened with Sunshine. We must've been fighting for less than five minutes and it's the end.

The weapon leaves my hand in a second, a spine-tinging shriek succeeding it. Sugar, just as befuddled as I was by the wallop to her temple, did not see the danger until it was too late. The ax lodges itself in her head and she collapses to the ground. _I didn't aim it right_, I realize. I rush to her body in horror and look down, aghast. It's not in her heart. It's stuck right between the eyes―what's left of them―and as I examine it, the cannon goes off. Sugar stares up at me blankly, ax standing up on its own from her face as currents of blood gush down her cheeks like tears.

She died in excruciating pain.

The knowledge of this, the revelation that I did such an act of savagery and grisly sight itself makes me weak at the knees.

She didn't get a quick, merciful end. It was fast but not fast enough. She felt it all and lived out her last seconds before the darkness in torture.

Bizarrely, I get a disconcerting memory of her heartbeat hammering against mine and a blurry vision of her face, an instant before the ax hit.

Sickened, I gather my backpack and ax and hurry away without looking behind me, not stopping my pace until I am an hour away from the scene, breathing hard and struggling to control myself. Sugar's death has shaken me through and through, perhaps more so than the others. I wasn't thinking straight because of her punch but I still caught a glimpse of the lengths I would go to survive. The lengths I told Julia that I would go. Killing someone to win, brutally or not. And I have done so, several times. Blaine and Sunshine and Sugar all suffered at my hands.

The Games force you to kill, encourage you to be terrifying, and _hope_ that you give them an interesting show but they don't prepare you for the ugly ramifications nor the crippling doubt of your integrity. How can a tribute be hailed as someone to admire if all they do is slaughter people?

There isn't room for mercy in the arena. I should've known this already. I shouldn't killed her and not felt a shred of repentance for it.

I should get over this. Work through the feelings of guilt and shame and be done with it, no big deal. But I can't. I don't want to face them. I can't bear the thought of explaining each and every thing that's wrong with me. I don't want to open up and expose what I'm thinking. No, I'd rather curl up and hide, pushing away things that would break any semblance of sanity that I might have. I don't want to lose _me_ in the process.

Haven't I already, though? Gone is any guise of normality―now all I think about is keeping myself alive, whatever the cost may be.

My left arm is still numb and I berate myself for not treating it quicker. The cut isn't too deep, like I surmised before, but it still needs work. Gingerly, I manage to wrap it up in some bandages that I had left. The project is sloppy and not a good job, but it'll have to do. I tie it tightly, slowly but surely working the gauze into a knot. That stops any flow of blood from that might escape and saves me from bleeding out, hopefully.

It's not my throwing arm, so I'm not too concerned. I just don't have the energy to care at this point, deadened limb or not.

I use some water to wash my hands, rubbing the excess blood on my shirt. I wipe my forehead and sit on a rock, staring unseeingly at my boots.

Twenty two tributes are gone and two remain. The odds, at last, are somewhat decent. Fifty-fifty. One in two chance of victory. Great, I suppose.

Is Sebastian aware yet, of the threat? He may be a Career and stronger than I am, but I wonder if he feels even a little scared. Uncertain. Tense.

On some level, however, I want him to disregard me. I want him to underestimate me. A big miscalculation of my ability will cost him his life.

My biggest worry at the moment is Sebastian's physique. I remember him clearly from the interviews and the reaping, along with the close up when he had his back to me before Finn tricked him and the Careers into leaving. Tall and muscular, he towers over me by a foot or two. Blaine, Sunshine, and Sugar were all my height or shorter but Sebastian has the advantage. His wits are a factor, too. His intelligence is very memorable and I'm sure that must've translated to fighting in the Games. I assume his swordplay is deadly as well, because he's survived this long already.

Again, I'm curious. Is he confident? Cocky? Frightened? Panicking? Does he fear me at all? Am I intimidating, or a mere nuisance?

I'll never know, I guess. Once I see him, he'll show bravery and forget his anxiety, if any. His determination and pride will be all he displays.

That's all I can do, too. I can't let him win before he does. If he does.

Him being my final competitor, regardless of superiority, cannot equal inaction. I can't slip into a mentality of defeat before a fight even occurs.

I sit for a little while longer, relaxed as I can be, but the sun's heat still beats down. I opt to go back to the caves, for both a much needed wash and to collect more water to drink. And the shade. And to find some fruit along the way, because I'm starving and I haven't eaten all day.

Appreciating the mindless tasks that I now have to complete, I set off into the darker reaches of the jungle, battling exhaustion along the way.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** The Girl with the Ax

**Author:** animatedbrowneyes

**Section:** (4/5)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters within the Hunger Games or Glee; I just borrow them.

Your reviews are so sweet. Thank you so much. I'm happy you're enjoying this! I hope this chapter goes just as well! :)

* * *

><p>Sebastian has not found the caves, it seems. I see nothing amiss, fortunately, so I head right inside and organize the correct drops of iodine into my canteens. He must've found a different source, like a river or stream that has to connect to this underground waterfall. I'm glad he hasn't had the foresight to poison it or something, because he'd not only deprive his foes of water but also himself. He's a smart one and it definitely shows.<p>

I sit on the floor, knees pulled to my chest, watching the waterfall's current descend into a small pool at the cave's bottom.

The coolness of the caves is comforting. It makes me think of home. Home, where the trees aren't lanky and smooth to the touch but stubby and bristling because of the bark's tough exterior. Trees that smell fresh and like pine and security rather than rotten and danger. Forests that house creatures I can recognize, like bears and mountain lions and not monstrous man eating plants and other horrors that hide during the daytime. Home, where the weather is normal and not prone to change at a moment's notice. Home, where the people I love reside. Home, where it's safe.

Not here, where the tally of twenty-four people―_children_, I mentally amend―has lowered to two and both want to kill each other to _get_ home.

I extract my necklace from under my shirt, holding the charms so they rest in my palm. The ring and the _R_, still signify my promises.

_Almost_, I wish I could tell Rachel and Finn, together, when we were all undamaged by the Games_. One more tribute and then I can come home._

I inhale deeply, curbing the tears before they can make an appearance, and meander over to my canteens. It's been long enough. I drink about half a gallon before returning them to my backpack. My stomach growls so I resolve to look out for something on my trek to a new campsite.

Sebastian won't hunt during the night. I'm sure of this. He's conserving his energy, like I will be doing. Not sleeping won't help him at all.

My forage into the woods gives me a rabbit, but beggars can't be choosers. I make a small fire with my box of matches and skin my kill before skewering the meat with a stick and hold it over the flames, rotating the stick every few minutes until the meat is cooked all the way through. It's something mindless again, so I just focus all attention on it. Once it's a bit burned―for precaution―I nibble on the meat and take sips of water.

My wound has made the skin around it yellow. I can't remember what else to do to fix it. My first aid kit is so basic and it would take a real hospital to mend it correctly. I've saved it from infection but not for long. It's festering and has to be patched up by a doctor soon or I could lose my arm.

I douse the fire and continue on tiredly, moving for about an hour toward the southern part of the arena. I haven't paid a lot of mind as to where I've been traveling lately, but it doesn't matter. I make sure to watch my feet and watch for predators, and I select a tree that looks acceptable.

I settle in, belting my body to the tree as usual. It must be good fortune that Capitol keeps the nighttime weather constant, because they could start a blizzard or something instead of this humidity. I let myself rest in my seat, limbs aching and smarting. Today's been too long. And painful. My eyes flash with endless images of the remains of Sugar's mangled face and the weight and feeling of the ax leaving my hand in a fatal blow.

The anthem interrupts my thoughts and once it's over, the sky shows just one picture. Sugar's. And then it's dark and silent again.

This is my last anthem, I realize with some relief.

No one will see another for these Games; they will see a victor and a loser, one alive and one dead, and that's it.

Somewhat rallied by this conclusion, I close my eyes.

* * *

><p>I don't know <em>what<em> I was expecting, but _nothing_ wasn't it. Not even close. There isn't some freakish anomaly in the weather that wakes me up. There isn't a flock or legions of mutts sent to attack. There isn't anything at all, and that's what disturbs me. Is Sebastian closer than I believe? Or have the Gamemakers simply sat back to watch us? It isn't like them to avoid staging confrontations. Maybe they're hoping he will track me down and scale this tree. Or, maybe they're hoping something else, where I somehow find him all on my own and finish the Games with a bang?

Whatever they're thinking or planning, I don't stick around to wait and see. I gather my pack and climb down, stifling a yawn.

I keep alert and focused, waiting for ambush from Sebastian, but I don't get one.

Oddly, he's been hiding from me for awhile. I thought he'd be on the prowl, eager to show off his skills and clear upper hand, but nothing comes.

Laziness could be an explanation. If Sebastian is so confident in his victory, why would he bother leaving his spot? He's a Career. I am not. Why seek me out when I might be looking for him? He could be waiting for me to find him and then he could take me out without breaking a sweat.

I'm not omniscient. I can't read his mind. But the idea of his arrogance sounds right. He did act presumptuous in his interview. He may not be hiding from me at all. I can imagine his smug expression, waiting for me to show up. Maybe he's unarmed, because he underrates me so much.

Something about this reasoning―however wrong it may be, because he _might_ be scared―rubs me the wrong way and I start scowling.

So what if I'm not a huge threat in comparison? Why should _I_ search for Sebastian? He should be looking for _me_, if he thinks he'll win so easily.

Maybe I'm too proud about my abilities or exhausted with the Games, but I unceremoniously decide, mid-step, to find a place to camp and stay there. Childish, yes, but it makes a point. I am a competitor too. I am not a helpless, pathetic tribute. I'm armed―and not a novice with my weapon―I can hunt, and while I'm terrible at watching my feet and not waking up to things, I've made it to the final two. I am not to be ignored.

Sebastian can find me for all I care. I'm ready. It's his prerogative, not mine. I'll be right here, in this relatively unprotected tree, just waiting.

And I do.

I wait for an entire day. One calming, uncomplicated, and quiet day that nearly lulls me into total peace. Not quite, but close enough.

For me, it's a break. I nap, I work on throwing my ax, I stretch out my left arm in the hopes of fixing it, and try to hold a blank expression instead of bursting into laughter at both Sebastian and the Gamemakers. Sebastian, because the lazy dolt hasn't even tried to find me once and I haven't even seen a single glimpse of him. And the Gamemakers, because they're waiting for the other shoe to drop and not one thing is happening.

This is one of the few things in the Games that I can laugh about, so I silently relish their obvious idiocy and let the audience see my serenity.

I can almost sense their impatience, though, because around midday of my second day of leisure, something strange happens to the sky.

I grab my ax out of habit and looking back, I'm glad I did.

I'm standing on a slight plateau, so I can see far and wide in any direction.

The sky is a foreboding shade of green, unlike the bright blue or murky gray that I've become accustomed to since being in this arena's conditions. The clouds are merged together at one point and hover about, not spread out like they normally are. The heavens seem to be condensing, channeling itself into a swirling funnel of darkness. Distantly, I can hear thunder booming in an explosion of noise, and watch as lightning crackles and strikes, column of dazzling energy landing on a tree and setting it aflame. The spectacle is odd but I finally understand the trouble when a ton of saplings two miles away are uprooted and sucked into the funnel's gravity, spinning in circles around the pillar of churning air and debris.

This is, without a doubt, a Gamemaker creation. It's the handiwork of technicians paid to cause destruction, and they have done their job.

The twisting column is nearing and as it gets closer, more trees and debris are absorbed into the mass. I blink, shocked out my stupor.

_RUN! RUN! RUN!_

Somehow, the words suddenly compute and instigate my legs to move. I turn from the storm―that's what it has to be―and start sprinting.

The ax is extra weight but I can't let it go because I might need it. I'm tired from the exertion in seconds but I don't let up, I just keep running as hard as I can, holding the ax near its head so I can be quicker. I soar over roots and logs and I zoom into the woods, chest seizing up with the effort. The storm follows me, ripping up trees as the wind rages in a scream. Once or twice I'm forced to dive sideways to avoid tossed tree in my direction. Panicked and terrified, I continue to run.

My boots are slowing me down like I knew they would but there isn't time to remove them and the storm is coming closer than ever.

I've been running for fifteen minutes straight and my body screams for an end, the end, whichever one comes first. I can't go on forever.

The storm's howl grates into my head and I tear through the underbrush, struggling to escape the bedlam of calamity at my heels.

By the look of the trees, I'm very close to the Cornucopia by now. The last bit of land to run on before the cliffs and then crashing ocean below.

I swing my arms, running hard, feeling dull aching on my left and a weight from holding my weapon on my right, gaze fixed on the horizon.

I can't do this. I can't keep at it. I'm too slow and the ax is an impediment more than an aid. I have to drop it or I'll get caught up in the storm.

Heart beating like a drum, my fingers are loosening around the handle when I see him straight ahead, a lone figure on this stretch of land.

Sebastian.

He's about thirty yards away from me, racing as fast as he can to escape the rumbling tempest that's chasing us. He doesn't chance a look back and keeps a steady pace, running in a uniform, practiced fashion in contrast to my sloppy gait and ungainly leaps. Despair and fear are my companions as I flee the storm's wreckage. I cannot catch up to Sebastian. He has a good lead and is a lot safer than I am from this disaster and at this rate, will reach the security of the sea before I can. The gray beast from the water seems like a harmless obstacle compared to this storm.

Is this the end? Being swallowed up into the typhoon as Sebastian runs, quite literally, to his crown? Am I defeated, at last?

The ax is still my hindrance. Letting it go would allow me to run faster and be safe because the column of debris is approaching more and more.

I jump over a rock, breathing hard, and look up just in time to see Sebastian stumble to his knees after tripping on an unseen hole in the grass. He gets to his feet immediately to resume his stride but that action in itself is my opening and golden opportunity―it gives me time to catch up. My ax is useful again. I realize in frantic excitement and desperation that he's within throwing distance. I can reach him now. I just need to measure my speed. Slowing down to perfect my aim allows the storm to get closer but will let me get him. Continuing to run delays our fight.

I choose carefully, where I won't lose my footing and precious time. We are so close to each other and the Cornucopia now. I slow to a stop.

The tempest howls terribly and I watch the evidence of the wind's advance: dirt and rocks and mud are whizzing backwards. I set my feet.

It'll never work. He'll win this. But I need to show that I went down with one last shot. Being strong in the face of ill fortune and bad odds.

I chuck the ax with all my might, nearly throwing my back out in the effort. It's impossible, but I had to try. I want to prove that I am strong.

On my knees now, sore and gasping for breath and staring listlessly at the departing form of Sebastian, I close my eyes, accepting the end.

_Boom!_

My eyes shoot open in astonishment and I get to my feet. That's it. The perfect hit. My mind flashes back to my training hour with the Gamemakers. The ax spins, then and now, a blur of rotating metal in the air, like a wheel on a car. Slicing across the field, it must've hit Sebastian square in the spine―killing him instantly―because his body is limp and bloody on the ground and the ax protrudes from between his shoulders.

He was alive not a minute ago and strangely, I can't register the significance of this change. Why is his death so important again?

I stare, uncomprehending, brows wrinkling in confusion until I slowly realize...I've just won the Games.

I won.

_I won._

The scream of the Capitol audience unexpectedly enters my ears and I turn around, finding no storm in my wake. It's vanished completely. The proof of its existence is obvious. A depression of land, separating a forest of trees and deepening the valley I had stood on during my first day in the arena. Dirt and rocks askance from their old positions, splintered wood decorating the area, but no spinning mass of debris and dark clouds.

I did it.

I don't burst into tears and utterly lose my cool but I do have to bite my lip hard to quell the rush of emotions from showing on my face. Relief, anxiety, bewilderment...I almost don't want to believe it. I am the last one. The single survivor and victor of the Forty-First Hunger Games.

Hollow and deflated, I feel like somebody's just sucked the life right out of me. This isn't a triumph. It's a loss. Everyone's lost and so have I.

Blood enters my mouth. I've bitten my lip too hard, not willing to digest the turn of events. It's overwhelming and I'm close to fainting.

_Is this real?_ I want to ask the thousands of eyes on me, needing the confirmation to understand the truth. _Is this _really_ happening?_

A hovercraft appears, blocking out the now shining sun as the unseen crowd's roar, still thundering from all sides, becomes painful. A ladder descends to rest at my feet and I hesitate for just a moment before climbing on, urgency to leave this place returning at full blast. The ladder freezes me to the rungs and I'm lifted out of the arena and brought inside the hovercraft. Sebastian's body across the way is being scooped up by a claw of a different hovercraft and I peer out the window, dully surprised, watching the island shrinking from view, now a dot on the horizon.

I feel weird, standing in a spotless room with furniture, not trees, and walls so white, my eyes burn. Or is it tears that cause such hurt?

It's tears because I can taste the salt. I press my fingers, dirty and coarse, to my cheek, feeling moisture. I exhale harshly, sounding like a sob.

_It's over. It's all over. I can go home now. I can go home to 7 and be with my family and friends and Rachel and sleep and be safe..._

I carried out my promise. I won and now I can return to Rachel, just like she wanted me to. Like Finn asked me to do as his last wish in his last breath.

A Capitol attendent, looking similar to the one who catered to me on my first ride to the arena, hands me a glass of sweet smelling juice. Not considering the consequences, I take a sip, discerning syrup on my tongue. Before I can fling the drink away, it leaves my hands and I black out.

* * *

><p>I don't know how long I'm unconscious after that. A day or two, at the most. I feel a bit stiff, but as I come to cognizance and find myself in a bed with a few machines beeping indistinctly beside me and a palpable lack of exhaustion in my body, I sit up without a fuss, relatively comfortable. My arm is normal again. My limbs don't ache with the pain of running so hard and throwing the ax. Scars are missing. Bruises are all mended.<p>

Being out of the arena and in these surroundings puts me at ease. I never have to go back. Physically. Mentally, however, isn't impossible.

The differences are unsettling to me, at first. No hot sun or strange climate or mysterious jungle. It's only white and sterile and quiet. The quiet is what I like best. It isn't a calm before a storm but a place of safety. And the bed helps. I sink back into the pillows, cherishing the cozy feeling.

Startled at a sudden cough, I look up and see that I have three visitors, and look down in swooping relief that I'm wearing a hospital gown.

"Quinn," Lysander greets, smiling so wide he shows dimples. I want to hug him but this bed has me strapped in, so I just lift my lips a little.

Julia's sitting on a chair against the wall and her eyes, dark and unfathomable, are fixed on me. She nods as a hello, but doesn't look away.

Leo's cheeriest of the three and his grin is delight and genuine affection as he studies my face, not using one of his patented plastic smiles.

"Marvelous job," Leo says, rubbing his hands together. "Everyone can't believe it."

Yeah, no one thought _I_ could actually best Sebastian, but I don't want to rupture his jubilance, so I avoid commenting and only nod in thanks.

"You had us for a minute there," Lysander adds and I sense the final dregs of worry in his words. It's nice to know that he really is my friend.

"What happens now?" I inquire, wincing at the hoarseness of my tone. Maybe it's because I haven't spoken aloud since Harmony died or it could simply be tangible grief and shock that settles in my throat. The trio pretends not to notice but my mentor's expression hardens a fraction.

"You have one more day of rest," Leo answers, adjusting his mane in a compact mirror. "Then Lysander gets you ready for your appearance."

"Oh, right," I acknowledge with a weak smile.

The victor is brought out, fresh and presentable, to watch their Games along with all of Panem. I guess my body is not quite ready yet.

"It's not too bad," Julia interjects, speaking for the first time. The coldness in her voice is at a lesser degree now and she seems compassionate.

"Really?"

"Think of something happy and concentrate on that," she advises, sounding like she's warning me to do so or else. "You'll need to."

The four of us talk for a bit longer but soon medicine lulls me into a deep sleep, fixing its last touches on my body. I think it's lunchtime of the next day when I am awake again. Now alone, I pull on the clothes left out for me, recognizing them as my outfit in the arena. Pushing memories away and firmly grounding myself here, in the present, I exit my room and step out into the corridor, unsure of where to go. I pick right at a fork and find Lysander, Leo, Julia, Metellus, Cesario, and Thasia waiting and all but run into the huddle of laughter and smiles, reserved just for me. Almost unable to squash a new round of tears, I pull away from the hugs and follow everyone into the dining room, my arm tucked in Cesario's grasp.

Unfortunately, I can't get a feast. My portions are minuscule and I only understand, after furious grumbles, that it would just make me sick.

"You'll go back to normal eventually," Leo teases as Metellus makes a show of taking thirds, not bothering to look innocent when I glare at him.

After lunch, the prep team works for about two hours on my body and then depart with merry waves, as Lysander arrives with my newest dress. It's not as dark a green as my chariot costume, nor is it white, like the attire for my interview with Caesar. This one is a sophisticated jade that goes to my knees, flowing and smooth. It's not too tight nor too loose and I feel soothed, standing in it in front of the mirror. Lysander pulls my hair back with an elastic band, letting a few strands frame my face. He places several bangles on my wrists, accentuating the green with brown.

He's faithful to the age-old industry concept but manages to make it comfortable and stylish at the same time. No wonder he's got this job.

"I like it," I murmur before he can prompt my opinion. Lysander smiles, modestly, and ushers me to the elevators.

I swallow hard and take a few deep breaths when I'm finally alone beneath the stage, standing on a plate that will lift me up onto the platform. This metal plate is so reminiscent of the one that dropped me so quickly into the arena, I double check the floor sturdiness and make sure it will not open up. I work my head around, hoping I can calm down, feeling my ponytail tickling the back of my neck. Nervousness makes me twitch. This front of confidence and certainty must be utilized but I'm having trouble accessing it. I need to show my sureness in myself. I am a victor now. As strange as the notion sounds in my head, it's true. Victors are icons. Victors are proud. Victors are poised. Victors cannot show fear.

Quinn Fabray is a victor. She will not be timid nor crumble to pieces. She is strong.

Somehow, I am able to plaster a smile on my lips. It's not real, though. Not in any sense of the word. But a good show is what Capitol requires.

Caesar Flickerman's jovial voice echoes and the audience shrieks noisily in reply, stomping their feet. Caesar introduces Metellus, Thaisa, and Cesario, followed immediately by Leo and Lysander, earning wild applause. Some authenticity slips into my smile when I imagine Julia's entrance after Caesar calls her name. Maybe she can look happy. Before long, Caesar is winding up with a ton of embellishing and then, I'm summoned.

The plate ascends and I'm stupefied by the sheer amount of lights on the stage. The ovation rises to a reverberating uproar, all in adoration of me. Hundreds of voices scream my name and beg for some acknowledgement, and my smile widens in astonishment and genuine pleasure. The audience demands my attention with their perplexing, familiar garb. I find myself turning in a circle in wonder to see a lot of people with faces painted red and wearing feathered hats. They clap hands to their mouths, whooping like warriors and jumping up and down instead of sitting.

The absurdity of their behavior doesn't register until a boy with a big smile winks at me, adjusting his headdress, and I connect the dots.

They're mimicking Finn and I.

The hats, the paint, the hollers...they're recalling the day when Finn and I put on camouflage, before it all went wrong and I murdered Blaine.

Capitol does things like this with victors. Shows their appreciation by imitation. I hadn't expected it so seeing dozens of stomping warriors is odd.

Caesar's arm slinging around my shoulders pulls me back to reality and I recover with some grace, no evidence of distress on my face.

I'm guided to the victor's chair and obediently sit down, smoothing out a wrinkle on my dress as the lights dim and the video begins.

I steel myself. Keep my composure. Think of something happy. It works, but only just.

The video starts with the reaping and I bite my tongue at the horrified look on my face when I walked up to the platform. The feed progress to my chariot ride and I listen to enthusiastic whispers regarding my outfit. I see my training score flash and my interview is shown. I'm quietly stunned at the change. My interview shows a person that is youthful, charming, and full of spirit. Now, I feel old, fake, and empty. I'm nothing.

My arms rest on the throne's arms, fingers curling down around the clawed end. I use it as an anchor. A reminder for me to keep my cool.

The tape cuts to the arena with all the players standing on plates stationed by an unsupported force in the sky. Discomfort settles in my chest because I'm looking at the twenty-three people I know to be dead, sent home, and surely buried by now. Seeing them unharmed is disconcerting.

In unison, the plates tilt sideways and everyone falls into the sea. Their screams are terrible to relive but I clench my jaw tight. I have to get through this. I watch myself swimming to the rocks and retrieving my supplies before heading into the woods. The footage shows death after death―including the blonde boy I punched―but it only amounts up to seven, as I knew already. I catch Sunshine holding people under the water with a particularly gleeful expression that disturbs me yet again but fortunately it flashes to my predicament with the quicksand. The crowd oohs and ahhs as I manage to escape and and the feed cuts to showing other tributes finding places to sleep and hide, some not. All are very scared.

Knowing how lucky my time in the Games was, regardless of me blundering through them, I watch as closely as I can.

I am shown with the botched hunting attempt, the discovery of water in the caves, and before I can prepare for it, my reunion with Finn.

Somehow I sense the audience and the editor have acquired the wrong idea but I keep watching it, engrossed with the images of my best friend while he was alive and well. His smile and contagious demeanor is the same as I remember and I feel bizarrely jealous of my counterpart on the screen. The audience is unnerved again by Finn and I having such a close scrape with the Careers and I hear whispers saying that we were _so_ lucky. I'm wishing uselessly for Finn's presence when I see myself organizing the mimicry plan against the Careers and feel my stomach plummet in anxiety. Finn's reluctance is obvious and I must not have noticed how much he didn't want to help with the plan but agreed to do so anyway.

Always up to pleasing me. Sadness sinks into my veins, spreading around my body, unrelenting and incessant, until I am a miserable statue.

I hear numerous murmurs of Capitol monikers for me, like 'Quinn the Brave' or 'Quinn the Valiant' and I want to throw up at the absurdity.

I have trouble seeing my own mimicking of Sunshine's voice as Blaine's looks uneasy from a ton of different angles. I stare at the shots of his murder with ambivalence, swallowing a frustrated scream in my throat. I despise seeing this...this savagery from me, no less, but I know it will only get worse. The footage flits from my distraught expression, one of the few that slips past my apathy, and goes to Finn waking up for water.

I was correct. Finn wakes up and looks up to me, shakes his head, and walks in the general direction of the caves. He was on his way back when he was caught, because it was morning and he was exposed. The attack is accompanied by unhinged looks of the Careers and I stare in repulsion at their faces. They are wild and uncontrolled and inhuman, pure animals as they drive knife after knife into his body. And I thought _I_ was bad.

_Why didn't you walk faster?_ I want to ask Finn, wherever he is now. _I could've helped. Or gone down fighting with you. You left me alone._

His death is painful, I won't deny it. Seeing it with fresh eyes is hard. My parting with him is a wave of new torture. The crowd mumbles sadly at the passing of his ring to me, and they continue to look downtrodden as the footage shows me wandering, alone and silent. Shots of me running from the Venus Flytrap, finding Harmony, saving Harmony from Sunshine, and staying with Harmony as she dies pass quick. They wrap up with Jesse and the boy from District 6 killing each other in a brawl, to Sugar and Sebastian's surprisingly emotional goodbye, to Sugar's demise and finally, Sebastian and I being stubborn until we're fleeing the tempest―_tornado_, someone says―concluding with my ax delivering the death blow.

The room and audience light up again and I use a scant second or two to collect myself before President Snow appears with my crown.

He stands several inches taller than me and as he lowers the diadem on my head, looking like a proud grandfather, I have a brief but paralyzing vision of a crown made of bones, not gold. Only managing to arrange my face into a broad grin that shows too many teeth to be real at the last possible instant, I smile blithely at the president and all of Panem, bowing low, realizing only now that I have perfected Leo's plastic smile to a T.

_Does this make me like Capitol citizens to the people who know me? Do I seem fake? Hated? Scorned by everyone?_

The crown is heavy on my head. I don't deserve it. I'm not worthy of this title. Nor being celebrated. Not a real victor. An usurper. Illegitimate.

My team and I are brought to the president's mansion for dinner and celebration, organized in my honor. Sponsors and admirers and Capitol citizens alike besiege me with hugs and kisses and praise but I can keep it together well enough. Julia and Leo will be pleased. _Quinn_ _Fabray_ is repeated so much that when I'm considering a change of my name to something obscure, Lysander swoops in and rescues me for a dance.

"Lighten up," he chuckles, maneuvering us into a complicated swing amidst similar moves from those around us. "They're harmless."

I don't want to lighten up. I want to go to bed. But Lysander has been nothing but good to me, so I don't lapse into impoliteness.

I am just sitting down for a break when Julia selects a chair beside me, glass of untouched champagne in her grasp.

"Tired yet?" She queries conversationally, eyeing her glass with a frown. Not sure of how to regard her, I answer her with a hesitant affirmative.

"Me too," she says with some emphasis, emotions hidden again as darkness clouds her face, and takes a sip of her drink.

_From what?_ I want to ask. She sent one gift for Finn and I in the arena and that was it. She didn't do much of anything else except snap at me.

She doesn't elaborate and we spend the rest of the night together, sitting at a table while Capitol indulges in the president's money that was shelled out on this party. Once Julia and I collect Leo, the prep team, and Lysander from various places, we return to the Training Center and head upstairs. I remove my dress and slip on nightclothes, stretching out on my bed. My eyelids heavy from today but I can't go to sleep yet.

Home is not but a day or so away. I can wait that long. I've been waiting almost a month, if you count up my absence from Reaping Day to now.

I haven't added up how long I was in the arena...three weeks, maybe? It's inconsequential at this point, really. I don't know why I care so much.

Halfway to unconsciousness, I finally understand my preoccupation with the duration of the Games. My mind attempts to rationalize how long this ordeal has been. How long since I left home, since I fought for my life, since I lost Finn and Harmony, and since I lost myself in the process.

Mystified and mournful for a multitude of reasons, I let sleep overtake me without a second thought.

* * *

><p>Julia knocks on my door at eleven o'clock, drinking orange juice and wordlessly allowing my prep team into the room. Today is my last interview with Caesar at two and then I'll be brought home on the train. Soothed by the thought, I don't speak and let the trio of workers make small corrections on my face. A brush of makeup here, a dabbing of lipstick there. Not too much, I hear them muttering amongst themselves with serious expressions. I don't need a lot to look fine because the interview is so short of an event and I had a lot of things done on me yesterday.<p>

Lysander's outfit for me is the same style of last night's but it's a different color set―mahogany with green bangles and flats.

Brushing my hair out and pulling it into a ponytail until it looks perfect, Lysander's tired but pleased look is prominent. I shoot him a half-smile.

"Thanks," I proclaim, grateful. "For everything."

For being my friend is unspoken but he gets it. He's good at reading me. Not as good as other people, but acceptable enough.

"Doing my job," he says with a shrug, although his blue eyes betray his sincerity. He's my friend because he wants to be. "Are you ready for this?"

"No," I admit. "But I've done...all right so far, I think."

"You have," he agrees. "One more thing to do and then back to 7."

A smile of relief appears on my face and he grins knowingly.

"You'll vist me, won't you?" He asks. I pause. Coming back to Capitol? The idea itself is disgusting. I don't like it here, not one bit. Too bright, too rich, too unfamiliar. No one I care about even remotely except Lysander and by extension, Julia, because I understand her rebuffs of me now. She's a victor too and these celebrations must be wearing. The Games pain her every day of the rest of her life. Like they do with everyone else.

Someday, I'll be in her position. Mentoring children from home just like I was. I will have to return here eventually. Resigned, I nod.

"On my Victory Tour...and when I replace Julia," I affirm truthfully. Otherwise, I can't really visit. Not unless Capitol extends an invitation.

"We're not all bad, you know," he says, observing my expression. I don't give an answer, because even if I do believe him, it's hard to accept.

I walk to my interview with Caesar because it's right down the hall in the sitting room, and he smiles fondly, embracing me in a hug.

"How are you, Quinn?"

"Fine," I respond, subdued.

"I'll go easy on you," he jokes after a minute of watching the cameramen set up, beaming when he sees that he's earned himself a tiny smile.

I settle on an armchair, sinking into the cushion as Caesar finds a seat across from me. A red light turns on and now all of Panem can see us.

Caesar does go with the simple route and we talk about mundane Capitol things, like the food and decorations. He starts to direct the inquires toward the Games and I clam up a little, but we manage to get though a lot of stuff. My terror at the gray beast (a shark, he says), my camaraderie with Finn, my strategy for surviving, and why I teamed up with Harmony instead of killing her on the spot. That's a tough one.

"Who did she remind you of?" Caesar asks, fuchsia eyebrows knitting together in curiosity.

"My friend, Rachel," I elaborate. She's probably been interviewed, because Caesar doesn't ask for an explanation.

Caesar brings up Finn right afterwards and it's difficult to remain cool and collected on camera. How can I be, if at all?

"He was very brave," Caesar remarks, shuffling his notes. "Luring the others away from you."

"I wouldn't expect any less," I concur softly, knowing my friends back home would wholly agree. "He was just that type of person."

"How did you feel when you walked away from him?" Caesar questions.

A lump rises in my throat. Crushed. Destroyed. Heartbroken. Why wouldn't I? Finn was stolen from me and his mother and his friends.

"It was hard to say goodbye," is all I can say, voicing what honesty I can manage. Caesar nods, ever the professional, and changes the subject.

The rest isn't as uncomfortable and once Caesar signs off and the camera have one more shot of me smiling, it's over. I exchange a goodbye with Caesar, more relaxed than I was several minutes ago. I don't need to go back to my room because my only possession I brought is on my neck, so I climb into a car outside with Lysander, Leo, and Julia. The streets are not too crowded but a few people wave to the blacked out windows. I hug Lysander tightly before I board the train, because I will miss him in some way, like I will with Leo. And the prep team. They're not as close to my heart as everyone at home is, but they have their own little niches. They matter to me, despite their residence in Capitol and affiliation to it.

The train gives a tug and then a few more before it starts moving. Capitol's buildings start to slide into colorful blurs as the train picks up speed.

"Excited?"

"Yeah," I admit with a sincere smile. Julia's lips curl up in response, ever so slightly. My excitement is contagious, it seems.

"Don't be afraid to cry when you get there," she says sardonically, indicating the cameras that are waiting for us, but there's no venom behind it.

"I might."

She laughs.

I don't know what's changed between us at this point, really. Perhaps my victory has thawed out her disdain a little. Maybe she can take me seriously now. There won't be much time to find out, though, because I'll be heading home to my family and she'll be doing her own thing, but we will see each other around the district at some point. It'd be nice to talk to someone who understands on the days that I will need guidance.

"You can visit Antony and I," she volunteers, somewhat awkwardly, as if she doesn't know how to offer this invitation to me. "We'll be close."

"He's already home?" I ask, surprised, but I don't remember seeing him at the hospital when I woke up or the Training Center.

"After Finn...he left. Viola, too, because she wasn't needed anymore," Julia answers, absently, eyes on the windows. "He'll be at the station."

We lapse into peaceful silence, watching the landscape change from shiny skyscrapers of Capitol to the very beginnings of our vast forests. My anticipation grows with each passing minute and it takes all of my control to sit still. I can already smell home in my head and I shut my eyes, placating myself with old memories until I can be present in the real place. The sawdust. The pine. The wafting of the bakery's goods. I can see everything clearly as well, like the town square and the Justice Building and my house and my bedroom and the kitchen and the backyard.

The backyard. The log near the middle of it. The fence. Fi―Carole's house, separated from mine by the railing that Finn used to jump over. My stomach lurches a little in regret as my fingers slide along the small gold band attached to the chain of Rachel's necklace. The ring feels heavier than before. Almost oppressive. Returning it to Carole will hurt. I don't think I'll be able to look her in the eye when I do it. At least not for awhile.

Giving both tokens back to their rightful owners will leave me feeling exposed and raw. They kept me alive in the arena and I want to keep them for myself, albeit possessively, so they can continue doing their job. Keep me sane and remind me of the cost. Without them, I'm only Quinn and that person is not strong. She's a shell. A body. A shadow. Intangible. Not recognizable. _Quinn_ is nothing extraordinary. Quinn Fabray, however, is.

Anticipation quickly surpasses selfishness when my gaze flicks up from my lap as I spot a row of telephone poles. I can't stop a sigh. We're here.

"Easy," Julia warns me as the train is pulling into our station. "You don't want this reunion to be ruined by you tripping over your feet."

"I'm fine," I insist, drumming my fingers impatiently on my armrest. She rolls her eyes.

"Don't embarrass yourself, Fabray," she grumbles from over her Capitol magazine, old irritation rustled a bit. "You'll look silly."

I ignore her and stand up as the train ceases all motion. The windows bar me from seeing everyone, but I'll be outside soon enough.

I rush from the room immediately at the sound of the hissing and position myself in front of the doors that are just inching open.

My heart pounds. I take several deep breaths. The Games can't affect me here. Everyone I care about are the only things on my mind.

The doors drag themselves open.

As I walk out onto the platform, and plant my feet on the first solid step of home since the day I left it, the area explodes with noise.

Banners with my face on them are strung up and hang from every building in sight, crisscrossing and connected by corners. Streamers and balloons and decorations are adorned in all directions. Peacekeepers are present but look lazy and amused, joining in the celebration. The square is clean and tidied up and filled to the brim with people, undoubtedly over its capacity. Metal barricades keep the crowd from swarming but cannot stop the clamor of cheering. I smile widely, and my gaze lands on the cluster of kin waiting in front of the station, alight with affection.

I get to Dad first.

He's in the front of the bunch and I don't realize how fast I'm running at him until we collide as dust stirs up in my wake. My arms go around his neck and his wrap around my waist and lift me up a little. I feel my father's sobbing as we stand there in the din of exhalation and happiness and squeeze him tighter in response, my head resting on his shoulder, like I used to do when I was younger. He sets me down and Mom's at my side instantly, watery-eyed gaze fixed on my face, flitting around it as if reacquainting herself with me before embracing me close, noticeably appeased.

Charlotte and John engulf me in a huddle and my nephews bop at my knees, jabbering delightedly in gibberish. Puck ruffles my hair in greeting and tries not to look like he's been crying (and fails); Brittany's squealing and lifts me up higher than Dad did; Santana grins up to her ears and punches my arm, mumbling that she knew I could do it. Carole is quiet and the minute is too, but she hugs me and whispers a thank-you in my ear. Eyes burning, I don't verbalize a word to her but she understands, regarding me with a sad smile and a pat of my arm. And then it's Rachel.

Befuddlement and genuine perplexity invade my high spirits and I find myself wrestling between relief and the stunning awareness that I no longer need to worry about her. All this pining for Rachel condenses into me looking flustered and sliding my arms carefully around her waist, cheeks bright red. _Now what? _I wonder, turning my face into her neck, feeling a shiver rattle right up her spine at the accidental breath I let out near her throat. I'm floored with the knowledge that she's okay and that I'm okay and we're together in one place and I'm not lying motionless in a box as an eliminated tribute, no, I'm standing with her in a festival underway for my victory and holding her in my grasp for far too long.

But I don't want to let go. I do anyway, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear and pretending I don't notice Charlotte's crooked, knowing grin.

Euphoria feels like delirium. It's impossible to be this merry; it must be a trick. Why else would my heart be swelling so much with pleasure?

The celebration for me officially starts with the first delivery of food for the district. Today must be the designated shipment for Parcel Day.

Cameras pan left and right as Peacekeepers hand out food by the wheelbarrow and start tossing it into the crowd because they have so much. More will be given to each house but this is a surplus. This is food for enjoyment. Excess aplenty and everyone else in Panem must be jealous.

The queue of friends and family shepherd me in the direction of my house as I wave a little to the mob of people, who enthusiastically return the gesture. A meal is waiting at home, according to Mom, so all of us will eat over there while everyone else celebrates in the square. I even spot Julia being waved along to join us and she chats with my sister along the way, since they are close in age. Rachel and I, however, walk at the back.

We don't talk. We don't have to because the sight of each other is enough. She wears the smile I've missed so much; a small one, where the edges of her lips turn up and her eyes sparkle with sincerity and pure elation. She's so _dazzling_, walking beside me and shining brighter and more magnificent than the sun ever could. She seems to sense that I'm concerned about _what_ we are, so we don't hold hands. All she does is keep her hand placed on the small of my back, touch like her kisses: electricity. _Her kisses,_ I muse intently. It's been such a _long_ time since the last one...

All that is missing is Finn. His presence would make this day as unrepeatable because it'd be so perfect. But I won't let the darkness in. Not now.

Puck, Santana, and Brittany hoard a sufficient amount of food and the five of us sit in the front yard, chowing down on expensive meat and fruit.

"I liked the orange," Rachel remarks when we're done eating, twirling a strand of my hair around her finger, my head in her lap. No one's commented on our closeness. Maybe she told them something when I was gone. Or they're dodging sticky questions so they don't upset me.

"I don't," I grumble, remembering the shock of Lysander's creation for the chariot ride. Puck laughs.

"Your mom spit out her drink," Santana recalls with a wicked grin. Brittany giggles.

"The green skin was cool," Puck chimes in. "I almost didn't know it was you."

I suppress any thoughts of recognition. He won't understand how different I am since the Games and how no one knows it.

The night stretches on for us in mute satisfaction but the festivities are unstoppable and loud from our spot in the yard. Rachel's fingers thread braids and intricate plaits through my hair while I lie lazily on the grass, content as a cat. Eventually Puck leaves to retrieve his mother and sister, and Brittany pulls Santana to her feet for a walk sometime afterwards. Now alone with Rachel, I study the endless stars that dot up the sky.

"Feeling okay?" Rachel queries, settling so she's lying beside me, ear pressed near my heart.

"Yes," I say, words caught between a fib and the truth. At the moment, yes. The whole district is happy and so am I. But _later_ worries me. How will I feel when I'm ready to sleep? Can I sleep at all? Can I assimilate back into the society of 7 and forget the Games, just like I wanted to?

She hums, unconvinced, but lets it go.

We part near midnight and she kisses my cheek, fingertips sliding along my jaw, eyes unfathomable, before she turns around and heads down the street in the direction of her house. Unsure of our status but missing her presence, I go inside and up to my room, shutting the door behind me and leaning on the frame, hand on the doorknob. My room has been untouched. My bed is remade but otherwise, it's exactly the way I left it.

I let out a shuddering breath.

Here I can break. Here I can finally lower my defenses. Here I can collapse and not regret who sees it. No one will. Such things will be private.

My vision blurs until the room is blobs of color and hot tears spill from my eyes, unyielding and unrelenting, as if a dam is suddenly destroyed and its river rushes forward, unwilling to be blocked any longer. Something inside me loosens and snaps and the invisible, constant weight on my heart lightens a little. I don't understand why I'm crying, because it's either from relief at coming home or a new wave of despair over what I am not anymore and the separation from my past and present. I've been broken and rebuilt hastily, sloppily, in a matter of days instead of the years required for a trauma like this. The facade of being _okay_ is a bigger sham than victors being heroes and I don't know how everyone believes it.

I kick off my shoes and burrow snugly into bed, still wearing my mahogany interview dress from earlier. I fiddle with my bangles, resting on the familiar comfort of this room, sobs slowing to sniffles. I wipe at my eyes, exhausted. I won't let _this_ happen again. Not anytime soon. No, I will stick to my mantra of remaining strong. I won't crumble nor will I let anyone in any further than necessary. It's not like I want to talk; I'm fine.

Tomorrow I will seek out Julia or Antony for advice and see what happens from there. If they win the Games and be relatively stable, so can I.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** The Girl with the Ax

**Author:** animatedbrowneyes

**Section:** (5/5)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the characters within the Hunger Games or Glee; I just borrow them.

Thanks for keeping up with this, everyone. I'm happy with this end and I hope you will be as well. :)

* * *

><p>Nobody wakes me up so I assume they have hangovers or just sleeping in. The district is in a lull of quiet, but this time it's welcome. People have the day off from the sawmill and other jobs and I know they appreciate the break. A victory is something coveted and everyone reaps the rewards.<p>

I look for something simple to wear and deposit Lysander's creation in my wardrobe, closing the drawer with a snap. I doubt I'll put it on again.

It's early. Seven at the most. I go outside, glad to be alone, at least for now. I kick a rock with my shoe, watching it skirt and skip before rolling to a stop. Reminded of that one day at the arena's ocean, skipping stones and talking with Finn about what we would indulge in if we won, I stop.

I can't stop thinking of him. I want to trick myself into believing that I'm over it. That I've let him go. But, no. That's impossible. I won't let him, the one alive in my memories, the one kept close to my heart, a phantom, a fading shadow of the original...he's locked in my grasp. I'm not ready to accept Finn's death as a natural part of life. It wasn't. It was an injustice. Sure, it was...avenged, more or less, but that won't alleviate the pain.

I stand near Carole's front yard, my hand resting on the old, dilapidated fence. The ring. She knows I have it. It's hers, but I still hesitate.

Another day is better than this one. Not now. Another time is more appropriate. She's probably tired from last night, anyway...

Lost in my thoughts, I realize I've strolled into the town square, where decorations are still up but the place is in total disarray. It's mostly garbage, though, because food would've been consumed fast, not a single piece put to waste nor dropped on the ground. I spot a few snoozing people in alleys and doorways and smile unwillingly. At least we all had fun. Parcel Days are not as extreme, but a party this big is very rare.

I come back at eight o'clock and sit at the kitchen table. Dad's reading again and I receive a vivid, disconcerting recollection of Reaping Day.

Hoping this residual fear and unhappiness does not continue, I twirl a butter knife around with my fingers. So much smaller than what I've handled before. This wouldn't hurt anyone. Not really. Unless you'd hit them in the face or the neck or something. The throw itself is child's play―

I set the utensil down with absurdly delicate precision, biting my tongue. Dad shoots me a look, but it's a not suspicious one.

"Big day today," he says, sounding pleased.

"Hmm?"

"Charlotte didn't tell you?" He queries, helping Mom bring breakfast over for the three of us and then kissing her cheek.

"No," I prompt, puzzled, once he's seated again.

"We're moving you in to your new house," Mom says excitedly. Dad chuckles.

"What?" I ask, lost. Mom laughs.

"Your new house in Victor's Village," she explains. "It's all yours―the groundskeeper has it all ready. You can have it for yourself."

Myself? Not my sister and her husband and children, who are crammed together in a small house and need it more than I do? Me, alone in an expensive part of the district that will make me more isolated than I want to be? A new place that will make me antsy with no one to talk to?

I know they won't take a no for an answer and Capitol won't let anyone else live there without a victor, so I just slap on a smile and agree. They don't see the blatant insincerity on my face. They're oblivious. Prattling about the beautiful architecture or something like that while I chew listlessly on my toast, reaching down to pass some to Daphne. I haven't seen her since Reaping Day. I pat her ears and she whines, delighted to see me. Maybe I can take her to this new, unfamiliar place that I don't want to live in. Having my dog there sounds somewhat acceptable. Sort of.

Once breakfast is over, Mom marches me upstairs and we pack up my things. Charlotte comes in to help and everything fits into three cardboard boxes. Clothes, mostly, are the bulk of it. Headbands take up little space with a litter of toiletries. My victor's crown is tucked with wrapping paper.

I consider chucking the worthless thing at a saw right now (and I wouldn't miss) but I'd get in big trouble, so I don't. Reluctantly.

We head to Victor's Village at nine and arrive just as the gardener is finishing up. He smiles before he departs but I pretend not to see it.

Mom's the first one inside and she immediately starts _another_ tirade about how pretty this is and how ornate that is, wandering in a circle with my dutiful and amused sister at her heels, both admiring Capitol's design. I look around on my own, setting my box on the floor by the stairs.

A house belonging to me isn't as bad as I thought. Puck and the girls can just come over all the time and I'll feel like less of a recluse that way. I flit past the living room―equipped with a television that's unnecessarily large, an enormous couch, and two armchairs―and enter the kitchen. Okay, they've got me here. I'm positive it's been outfitted with more gadgets and appliances than a sixteen year old girl would ever need, but I revel in it because Capitol must've been listening to me in the Games. A kitchen, like I wanted. An indulgence that isn't out of reach anymore.

It's a bribe, but I allow it. What's the harm in accepting a gift?

I pause at the countertops, running my fingers along the smooth surface. All for me and I don't know how to cook well. The arena was a different story; hunting and preparing animals was a skill from training. Creating an actual meal that isn't raw is a task I don't have a clue about doing.

"Wow," my mother says in amazement as she comes into the room, eyes wide. "Quinnie, this kitchen is so―"

"Beautiful," Charlotte guesses grumpily under her breath, and I smirk.

"―perfect," Mom breathes, not hearing our commentary.

"Yeah," I flounder when the silence is too long, waving my hand vaguely. "'S great. Yup."

Charlotte rolls her eyes at me in annoyance and flicks my forehead, avoiding my retaliatory swat as she sidles up to Mom.

They make plans for me to return for dinner at _their_ house and I respond in all the right places, walking them to the door and closing it behind the two. I sit on a step that leads up to my new bedroom, balancing my elbows on my knees and pressing my fingers to rub at my temples.

This house isn't cozy or comfortable. It's empty and too new and too clean and not suited for me yet. Getting used to living here will be a challenge. I've never been on my own like this before and I didn't expect to be anytime soon, at least not until Charlotte could. The Games have done more than make me kill to survive; they've thrust me unceremoniously into adulthood before I was ready and I'm still trying to catch up.

_That's not all they've done_, I think sourly, recalling my thoughts with the knife. Is that what will happen now? I'll regard life like it's arena schematics again, plotting out my next move? I want to be _done_ with it. I want it out of my head and shrouded in the furthest recesses of my mind, shut away forever because they're not worth remembering. The Games are not worth it but they remain in my dreams and nightmares.

Talking to my mentor seems more appealing now. How did she erase her experience? That is something I need to know.

I stand up and retrieve my box of clothes, ascending the stairs. My new room is empty and sad, I note, finding a seat on the bed, sheets and blankets in my lap. I ought to decorate in here. A task to keep me busy and my mind preoccupied. Painting it would take up a lot of time, too.

Looking for something to engage me, I unpack my clothes and tuck them in the bureau. Stow my toiletries in the bathroom downstairs. Position my crown, with some trepidation and resentment, on the mantle above the fireplace. Although it's too soon, I've finished moving in completely.

I wander throughout the house, studying this and that. Kitchen, basement, living room, three bedrooms. A lot more room than I need.

Irritated, I walk out to the backyard. The grass is cut. Pretty flowers are planted on the perimeter. A bench is at the back with a maple beside it.

It's only after I've walked a small lap around the yard do I realize that I'm really bored. Usually that isn't a common occurrence. More or less, I've always had something to devote my attention to. Homework, chores, spending time with my friends, babysitting...what will I do all by myself?

Fortunately, the day wanes quickly and I amble back to my family's house, sensing a routine emerging from this. Oh, well. It's something to do.

Dinner is a calm event and I revel in the change. Capitol has everything in it to be loud and obnoxious. Here I can unwind a little and relax.

That is until Dad brings up school. Honestly, I don't want to go there again. Of course I _should_, but to learn what in order to do what? Nothing. I have more money than anyone in this district (more than anyone will ever have) and attending would be a waste of time. I have nothing more to gain from it. I could throw buckets of money at my neighbors every day for the rest of my life and still be wealthier than the mayor himself.

It would be a distraction and an activity to occupy me, but it's schoolwork. I'd rather do something more productive, like redecorating my house.

"No," I state brusquely. I've never been impolite to my father, but irritation slips into my tone.

"What?"

"I don't want to go back to school."

John raises an eyebrow. Mom regards me over her glass. Charlotte snorts.

"Why not?" Dad prompts, curious.

"I don't need to," I answer as impertinently as I dare. "It's not a big deal."

"You're sixteen years old, Quinn," Mom interjects.

"So?"

"You have to finish," she counters firmly.

"No, I don't," I snap back, a lot harsher than I intended. Mom's smile is as sharp as her rebuttal, clearly not taking my attitude in stride.

"You will if I say so."

Her words anger me. Who was _she_ to tell _me_ what to do? She can't boss me around. I don't see a victor's crown on _her_ head. It's pointless for me to reenroll when all it will be is wasted potential to do something else, like learning how to cook or heeding some advice from Julia or Antony.

"We'll see," I respond stiffly, belligerence skulking beneath the surface, irritated with Mom. Charlotte rolls her eyes to the ceiling.

"Listen to your mother, Quinn," Dad orders. Mom nods, as if the conversation is over. It is, but not the way she wants. Not to me.

"I said no," I reiterate coldly, standing up from my seat without being excused. What can they do about it? It's not like I live here anymore.

"Quinn!" Mom calls in frustration as I slam the front door behind me and stalk back to Victor's Village without saying goodbye.

Irrationally furious with everyone, I stomp through the entrance and kick the metal gate shut with my foot, leaving the village locked from the inside. Good luck to any followers on my tail to berate me. I doubt Julia or Antony would want to head all the way over here to let someone in.

Unsure of where this sudden tantrum came from and why, I inhale a deep breath, shoulders sagging. What the fuck _was_ that? My parents have the right intentions; they want what's best for me. Disagreement edges into my head gradually and I sigh. They don't know what's best for me, though. Not now. I've survived without their guidance in an ordeal that had little to do with school except for a few facts that I recalled in a crisis.

Still, that bout of anger―or was it the dreaded darkness I've come to loathe?―was a bit stupid and I should go apologize for it. However, I find that I'm rooted to the spot. Somehow I've gained a lot of pride and the thought of running back for unnecessary forgiveness makes me annoyed.

No, I'll be right over here. Relishing in the opportunity to show some stubbornness, I shuffle upstairs to my room and climb into bed. Too lazy to make it up tonight, I use the pile of sheets as a pillow and untie my shoes, letting them topple to the floor as I lie down on my back. First night in my new house. It's not so bad. This isolation grants me privacy and a place to think in peace. And where I can ignore everyone and be myself.

This might become a pattern. Shielding myself and my feelings. Although, not arbitrarily. I won't talk about my problems. They should know this.

Tired of thinking in agitating circles without a satisfying conclusion, I shut my eyes.

* * *

><p>The morning isn't welcoming and nor are the ones of the following days. Rain pummels the district and thunder explodes across the sky frequently, sounding as if it's atop my roof. I don't go outside, choosing to wander around and nap and clean, concentrating on thinking of nothing at all. There isn't anywhere to go, anyway―I'm still mad at my parents and there's food stocked up to last a week or two―and because I am no longer fond of storms. Before, when I was little, they were fascinating to watch, seeing trees splinter to pieces and be set ablaze by lightning. Now, I loathe them. I liken bad things with storms. Submitting to the cruelty of the Games and killing Blaine. Running for my life and killing Sebastian.<p>

On the sixth night of this unending monsoon and my self induced confinement, a sudden knock on the front door nearly gives me a heart attack.

"What?" I demand as Julia stands on my doorstep, squinting through the downpour.

"Come outside," she orders, pulling at my wrist until I comply.

"It's raining," I blurt out unnecessarily, when we're standing on the lawn, being pelted by water. She rolls her eyes.

"Let's go for a run."

"_Why_?"

"Because I said so," she insists irritably, and I mumble a series of curses before pursuing her retreating figure.

Chilled to the bone in a matter of minutes, I maintain a pace behind Julia, shoes slipping and skidding a little on the street. Nobody's outside (it's approaching eleven at night and the rain deters any excursions) so we are alone for the time being. I can eventually match her speed, an accomplishment to appreciate. The storm bothers me, though, because all this running feels like I'm being chased. My thoughts become woebegone and the darkness doesn't help either. I keep reliving when I was hiding in the thickets with Finn, watching the Careers find Blaine.

But this isn't the arena. The sights around me―the Justice Building, the bakery, the sawmill a ways ahead―are familiar and soothing. It's home.

Home, safety. I am not in the arena. Not right now.

We reach Victor's Village again after a loop in the town square. Julia smirks when she sees my tired grin.

"I won," I cheer weakly, grateful for the rain's constant deluge.

"Let you," she counters, but it lacks animosity. Julia offers a mock-salute, smiling mysteriously, and strolls back into the monsoon to her house.

Mystified, I stay in the yard for a moment, letting the shower cool me down as I take deep breaths. Maybe I can do this again.

I pause, realizing what Julia has done. The rain isn't an obstacle to me anymore. It's a challenge. A running time to beat and my mentor herself.

And endorphins. I feel energetic and almost peppy, probably in the highest spirits I've had since I've gotten back.

"You tricked me," I accuse loudly, voice carrying into the wind, earning distant, muffled laughter before it is indiscernible over the storm.

Maybe she isn't useless after all.

* * *

><p>The running exhausts me so much that I get a dreamless sleep, one of the best I've had in a long time. It's not a solution to my problems and is merely a delayer to actually fixing things, but I indulge in it occasionally, on the days were it's hard to look in the mirror. That happens quite often.<p>

Rachel visits on Sunday. I haven't spoken to anyone since...last week, at the infamous spat? I don't know. Or care, really.

Busy in an attempt to make a stew, I sneak glances at her examining the house, taking everything in, silent and contemplative.

"Your mother's worried about you," she murmurs at last, watching for a reaction.

"Oh."

"I've missed you," Rachel admits, tentative. I gnaw on my lip, troubled.

The emotional distance between us is a chasm. It's my fault, I know, but I can't muster the drive to close the gap and open up to her. She's so different from me and the adjustment of experiencing things she will never understand deters any or all confessions. She walks the same, talks the same, acts and smiles the same. I don't. I walk carefully, quietly, always wary of an unseen obstacle, unlike her bold, thoughtless stride. I speak with veiled lies, keeping what I truly think and believe to myself. I hide whenever possible instead of seeking people out. I smile like I have shards of glass in my mouth. I smile without meaning or intent, while Rachel's smile expresses every feeling she can give. She's whole. I am not.

I've changed. She hasn't. I've yet to find a settlement that will work to regain what we've lost. My homecoming celebration to 7 was fine on its own, but being affectionate with Rachel without really understanding how I feel about her is unfair to both of us. As for now, it's at an impasse.

"What's that?" She asks when I don't reply, voice quavering. How do I apologize for my ignorance? I don't _know_ my own feelings just yet.

"Stew," I mumble lamely, wishing I could soften the blow of my earlier lack of response. "It sucks."

Rachel leans over to take a sniff, shoulder pressed against mine. "I can help you...um, with this," she adds hurriedly. "If you want."

This discomfort, this tiptoeing around each other makes me sad. We've never been awkward before, not that I can recall.

"Can you just teach me how to cook?" I ask seriously.

Rachel's unexpected laughter fills my ears and a genuine smile lifts my lips.

"Definitely," she agrees, eyes warm. Our shared unease remains in the background but we've reached a concession, at least for now.

"Okay," I concede amusedly, handing her the ladle and pointing to the unsightly mix of vegetables and meat. "Fix it."

Rachel snickers.

* * *

><p>She stays, showing me that throwing random ingredients into a pot and hoping for the best is actually not a good idea as I had once believed. Soon, we have a soup brewing that undoubtedly tastes delicious. Rachel works with my ineptitude easily, but demotes me to cutting vegetables.<p>

I slice a carrot, perking up a bit when I hear her begin to hum. The sound is so sweet, I have to blink at the sudden burning in my eyes.

"Quinn?"

There isn't time to look away; Rachel sees my expression and rushes over, looking horrified.

"Are you okay?" She urges.

A flustered, tremulous laugh escapes me.

"Yeah, I just missed that a lot," I admit. Rachel grins.

"Me?"

"Of course," I smile, truthful. "Every day I was gone."

Rachel returns her to her work without a word, red-faced―like on Reaping Day―and I can almost pretend it's as if I never left.

Our dinner, once completed, is loads better than anything I've managed to make. I collect the dishes and place them in the sink to wash later on.

Rachel lingers in the living room, toying with her jacket. I unlace my apron, hesitating. Would asking her to stay be too much, too soon?

She's talking about something or another but the temptation to request her to spend the night is overwhelming and I blurt out: "Stay here?"

Guess not.

"What?"

"Can you...stay here with me? Tonight?" I question, embarrassed already. Rachel flushes.

"Here?" She asks unnecessarily. I don't say a word and wait. Rachel's studying me closely, searching for something, but I don't know what it is.

She sets down her jacket.

"Okay."

I lead Rachel upstairs, handing her a set of bedclothes to wear. She'll have to stay in my room as well; the spare rooms don't have any mattresses.

Turning around as Rachel changes, I can't help but blush at her chuckle. I wait until she gives the all clear. I climb under the blankets as she does on the other side and settle so I'm lying down on my back. Rachel copies me and I shiver a little, feeling the warmth emanating from her skin, only an inch away. There isn't much said between us but the silence is nice, almost lazy. The minutes of tranquility stretch on but as I feel my eyelids drooping, Rachel's fingers intwine with mine, squeezing a little under the sheet. I squeeze them back and she holds my hand close, rolling over so her back is to me. Understanding her wish, I shift, settling until my arm is draped over her hip and my body is angled to rest behind hers.

This intimacy is strange. I've been without it for so long. The adjustment is difficult. Awkwardness lingers but it lessens with time. Rachel's patience must be endless, because she doesn't balk at the discomfort and waits for me to relax. She runs her fingertips up and down the arm near her waist, the touch a tickle, until I can feel my body unwind. My embrace around her turns languid. I can see Rachel's smile stretch to her ears.

She continues her ministrations until I feel sleep coaxing me into darkness.

* * *

><p>Her visit grants me the luxury of freedom from nightmares with no strings attached. No exhausting regimens to force some shuteye nor a fretful sleep riddled with terror, no, I am at ease for the entire night and stir in the morning without the customary fatigue weighing down on my eyes.<p>

Rachel is asleep, still, so I make sure to be as quiet as possible when slipping out of bed and traipsing to the kitchen.

I peer out the window into the early sunlight, unable to stop a sigh from escaping my mouth. I don't know what's brought it on. Sadness or serenity, glumness or peace...it could be any of those feelings. _It's just one of those days_, I realize belatedly. One where I must grapple for security and anchor myself here, at home, when nothing can hurt me, where there isn't a pack of bloodthirsty Careers lurking about, searching for a kill.

Why now? My night was uneventful but I get stuck with this dullness. It's not fair.

"Quinn?"

I drop a stack of pans, hearing them clatter to the floor, utterly startled out of my wits. Rachel ambles over at once to help pick up the pile.

"Sorry," she says, gaze apologetic, "I woke up and you were gone."

"I was planning to make breakfast," I counter numbly, still reeling from the unexpected gloom that has affixed itself in my mind.

Rachel's brows knit together, picking up on the irregularity of my tone and says, "I can do it."

I let her work alone and sit on a stool, watching her move around the kitchen, assembling this and that to make us something to eat. She's humming again. The sound should soothe me, as it did before, but as I trace her movement with my eyes, watching the spinning of her figure, I get smacked with a vivid image of Harmony in a meadow, murmuring nonsense words to herself and spinning in circles during one of her episodes.

The similarities unnerve me yet again, as I compare my memory to reality. The smile. The energy. The look in the eyes, but not the iris color.

I haven't thought about Harmony in awhile. I've almost forgotten how she beams when she was coherent and engaged.

I haven't thought about Finn, either. The recollection of his laughter seems tinny and distorted, snatched away by time, Careers, and bad luck.

"Are you okay?" Rachel asks, and her face blurs, shifting between a vague, dreamy phantom to a concerned girl, expression unfathomable.

"Yeah," I lie, aching. The pain of the Games is a smarting twinge and I tune out Rachel's words, accepting the omelet she gives me in silence.

What can I do to fix this, if at all? Julia's running solution and Rachel's presence only work with ridding myself of nightmares but not on working through my troubles. I still get pulled into a wave of bitterness and regret without warning and am forced to tough it out until the spell passes.

I need to ask for Antony or Julia's opinion, urgently. Other victors will understand this predicament.

Rachel holds her tongue until it's around nine o'clock and she's about to leave, leveling me with a stare.

"You were fine last night," she says, quiet. "What happened?"

"I don't know."

"What can I do?"

"I don't know," I repeat helplessly. Rachel nods, her relief at yesterday's understanding already gone, replaced with grim disappointment.

"Okay."

"Sorry," I mumble, desperate. "I'm trying to make this work."

"I know you are. Do whatever you can," Rachel encourages, tiny smile on her lips, clasping our hands together. "I just miss _you_, that's all."

"I'm right here," I argue lamely. She shakes her head.

"No, you aren't. Not yet."

Rachel walks away without waiting for a reply and I sigh, closing the door behind her. She's right. I'm not one hundred percent focused on anything, always mentally drifting between the past and the present, often abruptly, and leaving those around me in frustration and sympathy.

I miss our old closeness, more so than before. I miss the feeling of knowing where we stand. Nowadays, our communication is strained and weak.

Rallied for a goal, I brush my teeth quickly, drag a brush through my hair, and find some clean clothes. I rush outside, almost sprinting to the furthest occupied house in Victor's Village. The lights are on, thankfully. I knock on the front door, rapping it so hard, my knuckles begin to hurt. It takes me several seconds to I realize that I'm hitting Antony square in the chest, and he glares with bleary eyes. I withdraw my hand, apologetic.

"What?" He grumbles.

"Can I talk to you?" I ask awkwardly, feeling suddenly small. Antony steps aside and I flit past the threshold, surprised that he had agreed.

His house is identical to mine, I notice as I glance around, but the furnishings are a little different, considering he's lived here longer and has a different taste. Antony walks to the kitchen and I follow, finding Julia at the table, sipping a cup of tea. She doesn't look too startled to see me.

"Hi," I greet.

"Morning," Julia replies, expressionless. Antony and I sit and for a minute, they wait for me to say something, silent and expectant.

"I'm not doing well," I admit, nodding in acknowledgement when Anthony passes me a cup of steaming tea, returning to his seat. The words begin to tumble out, unbidden and uncontrollable, as the constricted feeling in my chest lessens with each professed truth. Home for less than two weeks, I have yet to get settled and keep struggling with ghosts of my experience in the Games, unable to properly work through them. I feel trapped, I explain, feeling their eyes studying me without judgement. I want to get over this, but I'm stuck. I can't move forward. I can't heal.

Healing will solve everything. Healing will bring back what Rachel and I shared. Healing will help me learn not to punish myself so harshly. The last note is a recent realization. Not everything in the Games was my fault. I had a fair share of mistakes and bumbled blindly through the arena's evils, but I could not prevent several things that occurred. The attacks of the Careers, the Flytrap...such events were out of my hands. The guilt is still present but not overwhelming nor all consuming. I can separate myself from it, at least for awhile. I can see that I am not entirely at fault.

"This might come as a shock but you'll never actually get over it," Julia says. "I'm not. Antony isn't...we still have plenty of trouble handling it all."

"Oh."

My shoulders sink.

Antony elbows Julia reprovingly.

"It isn't as bad as it sounds," he remarks, shooting Julia a frown. "You get better at managing yourself, in time."

"How?" I ask, puzzled.

"Talking about it, like we are now," he answers. "With the ones you love. They won't understand most of what you're saying, like the times where you want to curl up and hide for days on end, or the ones where you're so angry, you want to break things. But they will listen, because they care. They'll listen to you because they _know_ you're still in pain. There isn't one person in Panem that doesn't know about the ramifications of the Games. The issue is that most disregard it, like Capitol orders us to. Except the people you trust. They will be patient, hopefully, for your benefit."

His explanation is so obvious, I feel a bit embarrassed. I should've realized that before. Elaborating on how I feel will make things a lot easier.

Maybe that's why nobody's asked about my time in Capitol or in the arena, not once. They were just waiting for me to bring it up myself.

I stir my tea, silent for a minute. I wonder how I can bring this up to my family and friends, most of who I haven't spoken to in awhile.

"What about the nightmares?" I ask. Julia looks sullen. Antony looks resigned.

"They won't go away," my mentor says, almost inaudibly. "But that's expected. A trauma that repeats itself year after year won't just disappear."

"I exercise to ward them off," Antony chimes in. "When you're that tired, you don't usually get bad dreams."

"Find a hobby," Julia instructs. "It keeps you occupied during the day, or sometimes at night, depending on the hobby. But if that can't hold your attention during tough times, talk when you're upset and be alone when it's too much to deal with. I know victors are supposed to be invincible and people to admire, but it's impossible for someone to both deal with their inner demons and keep up a facade. You can't. We can't. No one can."

"We're slaves to the Games, Quinn," Antony proclaims, grave. "They are inescapable. We can only learn to adapt and grow past our low spirits."

"You can't get over them," Julia adds. "You can't forget them. But if you let others know how you're feeling, days will become less of a struggle."

"But it feels like I need a crutch," I argue. "I don't want to _depend_ on people to get by."

"You're not depending on them. You're letting them in occasionally and see a glimpse of what you feel. It's very different," Antony counters.

"Will they think less of me?" I query, voice small and afraid. That fear one of my biggest concerns, ever since I killed Blaine. Julia purses her lips.

"Maybe. But if they love you enough, it won't matter what you did, like what any other tributes have done. It will matter that you're home."

I absorb this with a nod, mind cleared. All I can do is open up and let everyone see what they can do to help me get through the day.

Thanking the pair of them for the advice, and the tea, I part with a wave, rubbing my arms at the wind that hits me, once I reach the street.

What to do, now? What can I do that will actually start my campaign on moving past things? What's my primary dilemma at this moment?

It's not until I'm walking from the Village do I realize where I'm standing. Rarely do I go here. No reason to, before. Nobody I know would lie here.

But today, there is a cause. I have someone I love in this place, waiting to be visited. He's been waiting for a long time. Three weeks or so, maybe.

Biting my lip, I push at the gate of the only graveyard and pull it shut behind me.

* * *

><p>My grandparents are buried somewhere in this site, but both sets died when I was very young, so I deign from walking to their graves. My eyes flit around, searching for a new pile of soil. There, on the far left, by an oak tree. My feet carry me quickly, shoes slipping a bit on the morning dew. The sight of Finn's name etched in the stone makes a lump rise in my throat. His funeral must've happened when I was still stuck in the arena.<p>

Uncaring of ruining my pants, I sink to my knees. My fingers grasp a handful of dirt and I inhale a deep breath, but it doesn't calm me down.

"Hi, Finn," I greet softly. His gravestone is simple and basic. Not a lot on it. Not enough words to make people remember who Finn Hudson was.

I transfer clumps of earth back and forth between my hands, fumbling to correctly reveal my thoughts, like Julia and Antony said I should do.

"I miss you," I get out, looking at my lap. "It's...really hard waking up and realizing that you won't hang out with me because you aren't around anymore. I keep expecting us to meet in the backyard and look at the clouds again, or go to school together and sing with Rachel and everyone else. I don't know if I'll ever get used to you being gone. It's just...you were always _here_ and now it's like I'm missing _something_. I can't get it back because there isn't someone that ever can take your spot," I add, voice quavering. "It's so hard to remember that. It's so hard to _miss_ you."

"I hope I can get to a good place with you. I want...I want to think of you and be _happy_ that you lived and how you were my best friend and not be upset that you died. That's it, there. You _died_ and it sounds so _wrong_. I just...you're dead and gone and you're never coming back and I can't ever joke around with you or let you copy my homework anymore. I don't know if I can ever accept it. I should but...I, I won, for you, like you said," I choke, groping desperately for a new topic. "I came home. I'm sorry that I couldn't take you with me. I bet you'd love the party. You deserved it more than I did, anyway."

I don't speak for a second, rubbing my stinging eyes.

"Rachel and I...I don't know what we are," I admit. "But I care about her a lot. I hope I can make myself good enough for her. I'm getting there."

The wind ruffles my hair, almost consolingly. There isn't much else to say, I suppose. Finn died knowing my apologies. He's still free, unlike I am.

I stand up and brush off my knees, folding my arms over my chest to quell the building sobs. The ache is horribly painful and seems to be endless.

"Sorry I couldn't save you," I say hoarsely, looking down at his grave. The situation finally hits me. I'm taller than Finn. In life, he towered over me. Now, I dwarf him. Or the body. It lies underneath me, but it's just a corpse. _My_ Finn has vanished. "But you're home, like you should be. Where you belong."

"Thanks for giving this ring to me. Thanks for caring about me so much and thanks for just...being you," I conclude, voice cracking. "Bye."

Tears begin to fall but I let them. Breaths are tedious and severe. I ache everywhere. I feel raw but that's good. I'm not burdened with his shadow anymore.

I walk away as I did in the arena, but this time, I am lighter and sadder.

* * *

><p>Carole seems to know where I was when I stop at her house. We sit on her porch for awhile, rocking chairs creaking a little.<p>

She smiles cheerlessly when I hold out her husband's ring, but shakes her head in refusal. She has enough possessions to remember her men.

"Keep it," she says, one hand on my shoulder. "He would've wanted you to have it."

* * *

><p>I wait a day before I attempt something more. I don't want to overexert myself.<p>

The following dawn―the early hour revealing my restlessness―I just about run to my old house and rap on the front door.

As soon as my mother appears in the doorway, tying a bathrobe around herself, blinking in tired confusion and astonishment, I throw my arms around her and babble apologies in her ear, holding on as tight as I can while she stumbles a little before embracing me back. I blurt out anything that comes to mind, desperate for her forgiveness. Sorry for being so absent, sorry for yelling at her, sorry for leaving, sorry for being so ungrateful. She cries and I cry and we're a complete mess until we can compose ourselves. I'd feel embarrassed for the lack of dignity and break in my decision to be tough, but Julia and Antony's words rattle around in my head. I should let this happen. Mom loves me and wants to help.

I spend the day with my parents, sister, John, and my nephews. We don't have a huge talk but I explain over dinner that sometimes I'll need them and sometimes I won't. It's unpredictable and flighty, so I doubt they will understand entirely. Sometimes I'll seek any one of them out, depending on my mood, and ask for chatter or silence. Maybe whoever's I pick will take a walk with me or just sit while we do absolutely nothing.

I'm not repaired. I won't ever be. The Games broke me and rebuilding is not an easy process, nor can I wholly complete it. I lost part of myself in the arena and it can never be returned. I compare it to replacing a damaged table leg. The substitute can't compensate for the original and it's not the same, but you manage it. I'm not myself. I'm not Old Quinn or Victor Quinn but some amalgamation of both. Quinn Fabray, recovering tribute.

I decline a companion for the walk back to my house, but the solitude is welcome. I've covered a lot of ground, mentally.

Being composed isn't an issue anymore. I know Julia and Antony are right. Sometimes I can lean on people. Sometimes it's okay to be weak.

Letting myself rely on others is part of the coping procedure, according to Charlotte's infinite, twenty-two year old wisdom.

I allow another break when I talk to Puck, Brittany, and Santana. Those three were one of the many I avoided most. They get it, though. The four of us spend time together while Rachel's still at school, being tutored in some subject. It gets awkward but we push through it and I answer a few questions, like how I felt in moments in the arena, watching the Games recap, dealing with Capitol people and wearing the elaborate costumes.

The issue of not returning to school doesn't surprise them. They suspected of it already. Me at school again, Brittany says, would be an odd picture.

Santana wonders if I'm at a good place. I shrug. I really don't know right now. Maybe. I'm not as guilty as I was. Not as remorseful, just at ease.

"I have an idea," she wheedles, "but you might not like it."

* * *

><p>"A haircut?" I blurt out in a yelp, when Santana returns, armed with an old pair of scissors. Puck chuckles, lounging on the couch.<p>

"Yeah," Brittany smiles. "It's like...you're not _you._ You've changed a lot. Cutting your hair shows everybody that you're...different now."

"And that's a good thing?" I question, batting away Santana's hands.

When Puck nods, wearing an uncharacteristically serious expression, I cave in.

I wait alone for Rachel outside the school about an hour later, goosebumps rising on my neck. Santana chopped about four inches off (cackling as she did, joined by Puck and Brittany in response to my horrified face), so instead of my hair reaching the very top of my ribcage, it tickles the skin of my shoulders. It's a strange adjustment to get used to and I have to hold in laughter when Rachel exits the building and zooms toward me.

"Wow, Quinn," she mumbles, surprised. Her gaze lingers on me and I grin at her blush. She withdraws her hand, stopping herself from running her hand through it. She's wearing red today―raincoat, boots, headband―and I remember wearing a similar headband on the train to Capitol.

"What do you think?" I ask, eyes dancing. Rachel scowls.

"It's nice."

"Only nice?"

"It suits you," she admits in a grumble. "Happy?"

"Very happy," I acquiesce, linking our fingers together. Rachel smiles a little.

We walk for a ways in silence and I swing our arms in the air, rewarded with her melodious laugh.

Things seem simpler now that I've worked through some things and acknowledged what I need to do. Not all, but enough to feel more comfortable around her. I don't have a label for us yet, but Rachel doesn't mind. As long as we're together, she says, then it's fine. I agree.

I successfully make something edible for our dinner tonight, product of my new hobby, and Rachel cheers mockingly with a kiss to my cheek.

"Excellent work," she teases.

"Why thank you," I jeer. Rachel snickers.

She's allowed to spend the night but we aren't very tired, so we lie down, talking for awhile. I give her the same speech I gave to everyone else.

"Sometimes I'll need you with me, others not," I point out, leaning all weight on my elbow. She's lying on her side beside me but watching intently, gaze electrifying, like her touches and kisses. "I might randomly ask you to go running with me in a thunderstorm or something. Or stay in the kitchen and watch me cook. I don't know. I don't even know how I'll feel tomorrow, to be honest. I just need you to be here to help."

"I will," Rachel promises, and kisses me.

It's a promise more than a token of affection, but I appreciate it just as much, reveling in the elated feeling she creates by just being herself.

Rachel's fingers tug playfully on her necklace around my throat when she pulls away, leveling a smile in my direction.

"Still wearing this, aren't you?" She asks as she regains her breath, amused, hand gently grazing my skin beneath the chain.

"Can I keep it?" I ask longingly. "It's gotten me this far and I really―"

"Of course," Rachel interrupts quickly, catching me at the very cusp of an approaching bad mood. "It's yours now."

I sigh, smiling in relief. "Thanks."

It's silent for a second and I find a comfortable position, Rachel cuddled up against my side. I wouldn't mind living exactly like this forever.

_Can I?_ I wonder, toying with a tress of her dark hair while Rachel traces nonsense patterns along my arm, breaths warm against my collarbone.

Can I stay at peace like this with Rachel, living in my house, together? I might love her. Not yet, but I will allow myself to eventually. Once I'm happier with my progress. The feelings are there and strong, though, pressing in on our conversations like a storm. I catch my eyes landing and lingering on her constantly, along with my mind. There isn't a single day where my thoughts don't stray to her once. I admire everything about her and only hope that I am enough for her. Being a victor means little in this case; it's what I can do to show my regard that will hold Rachel.

"What are you thinking about?" She mumbles, drowsy.

"You," I admit. She smiles adorably without opening her eyes.

"Interesting," she murmurs, opening her eyes and sending me a suggestive look. I laugh.

"Whatever you say, Rach."

"Whatever I say?" She parrots, climbing so she's straddling my hips, hands placed on either side of my head, wearing a mischievous grin.

"Uh―" I squeak.

"Nah," she muses, resuming her old spot before I can stop her. "You're right. Too soon."

"That was unfair," I grumble in displeasure, and she laughs.

This is what I've been missing for so long. Our easy, light-hearted repartee, punctuated by kisses and sweet words, like on the eve of Reaping Day.

We fall asleep not long afterwards, hands interlaced between us.

* * *

><p>Rachel shepherds me downstairs in the morning and I sit silently as she makes breakfast, humming yet again. I smile.<p>

This isn't a hard life to live. The two of us, here, working through each day one step at a time. I have awhile to go before it's acceptable, though. There are plenty of things I haven't addressed yet, like the four Careers and that other boy who I killed in the arena, on the first day. Those ghosts are still locked inside, whispering poison in my ears and making my stomach flip with terrible regret, forcing me into hiding and thus, suffer. I haven't settled with the memories of them, but I will at some point. The Victory Tour will just bring new pain when I visit the districts, but I can push past the grief. I may not be strong enough at home, but to others, elsewhere, I am Quinn Fabray, victor of the Forty-First Hunger Games.

I possess numerous distractions. Hobbies, activities, people...I'm not alone, not anymore, like in the arena. Company is something I own now.

And Rachel. I value her above everything else.

Capitol may have crippled my mind but I can rebuild, with the help of people who care enough to be shoulders for me to lean on.

I started these Games as just Quinn from District 7, frightened and trapped in the Games with my best friend with twenty-two tributes aiming for the same goal. Since then, I fought my way out, losing Finn in the process and Harmony, an ally I treasured for sentimental reasons. Sent home broken and sad but crowned as Quinn Fabray, a victor, an icon to admire, I was able and fortunate enough to have a mentor―and the mentor of my best friend―to begin my push toward recovery. Assisted by my family, friends, and Rachel, I've come a long way in a matter of months.

This isn't an end. The Games have not ended and will not end. Still faced with them, I will be stuck training children like myself in several years.

I must keep moving, and I will. If the arena has taught me a single thing, it is to continue on, even if things get difficult.

"My dad wants you over for dinner," Rachel says from the stove. "How's Tuesday?"

"Tuesday's fine," I answer sincerely. She smiles a little, returning to her work.

There'll be bad days and good days, that much is obvious. But as I watch the figure of my little songstress move around the kitchen, mumbling lyrics under her breath to a beat only she knows, I rest easy, because I know with completely certainty if I wake during the night in a cold terror, shaking with the remnants of a nightmare, I will always have someone to anchor me in the present. I am not alone and I never will be again.

The Games insist on a lonely victor and Capitol endorses a solitary champion. Such a practice creates isolation for the winner. That will not be me.

I am Quinn Fabray, victor of the Forty-First Hunger Games, but alone I am not. Here, at home, is my sanctuary, and here I have dependable allies.

"What are you smiling about?" Rachel asks when we've finished eating and walking outside, along the very boundaries of 7.

"Nothing," I reply, stopping to examine a large sycamore. I can hear Finn's amused voice in my mind, pointing at one made of clouds in the sky.

"What are you thinking about?" Rachel presses, squeezing my fingers.

"Climbing this. Come on," I goad, teasing. "Let's go. Once we're up there, I can tell you about my good friend Lysander."

"The stylist?"

"Yeah."

Rachel climbs up after me without complaint, and we sit on a branch, looking to the heavens. I look to the future, and it is as steady and stable as my crown.


End file.
